"irregularity" poems
Your pre-frontal cortex is delectably oral amidst this maze of psychological violence.
Oh, mistress of certain uncertainty, I cannot articulate the essence of ontology, as human language is inadequate. But, you truly capture the flow of irregularity in this mass mockery of societal fabric.
Therefore, I simply appeal to our mutual and primitive impulses. Let us be rough, despite the misguided assumptions of those who claim to have affiliation.
I like old school choppers, because they are not polished.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
For dead is where I begin, Indebted.
& that is where I’ll stay,
Despite the way I feel today
Despite my tiresome aversions
I will hang myself before the opportunity for any detour
Deter…
I will deter myself.
I will prove to myself, once again,
That I, am the master of my demise
The rue in ruin
My own failure
and then…
I’ll lay my head to rest.
For tomorrow is over.
A new beginning in which to distract away from a new
To make the same mistakes I’ve grown so familiar to…
To a broken neck, one in which reflects my irregularity
To walk with my head down…
Past the bridge of contemplation, contemplating-
suicide.
Despite refrain,
To spite restraint
To the end.
& never make it-
to the end,
My End.
I shall be received
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
The skin at the bed of her nails shone, tight.
Forever healing, windows that rattle
With the changing of her moods.
Love was a locket, an heirloom
That insisted its presence
Upon her bedside table.
She could turn out every light
And it would still be there.
Steady metronome,
Lifeless thud,
Invasive thought.
The carpet gathered artefacts from late night walks.
Bad habits clung to the walls.
No pillow talk, only muffled strings,
Failed symphonies,
Conversations three years old:
Memories that play Chinese whispers
Across the faces in the ceiling.
Irregularity of breath,
Sleep comes, clothed in Zopiclone;
A mind that never rests.
Narcosis in the morning,
Nausea over dried toast,
Sweet flamenco on the radio,
But there is nothing to calm her bones.
The red wine cast last night’s shadow,
Hollow in the eyes, first hit of daylight,
First hit of nicotine
To prove she is still alive.
Anxiety: the ball and chain,
Always dragging her behind.
Living as a ghost,
The people at the bus-stop stare,
The traffic, the signs, the passers-by,
The doldrums in the headlines,
The rain upon her window;
The heart attack and vine.
Prescription pills in the afternoon
To get her through the day,
Until she can get her fix,
Have her fill,
And finally hide away.
The high-street parade comes alive after dark,
Lanterns on the lake, the fish-bowl
Of a small town, familiar tongues that roll;
Memorised anecdotes across the ashtray,
The lipstick on her teeth.
Clumsy in victory, each stumble confined
To look as if she has walked through life
Without ever missing a stride.
There is nowhere to breathe
But in the solitude of her insanity.
She paints the walls
To the colours of her moods:
Grey in the long, long winter,
Blue in the onset of June.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
Writhe my darling
and spread wide
hot **** ***** death *****
I want to **** you
blood thunder spit
and gag ****
your eyes
rolling marbles
till you are black as midnight
xoxoxoxoxoxo
"Part of the public horror of ****** irregularity so-called is due to the fact that everyone knows them self essentially guilty."
Alister Crowley
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 12:01 PM UTC
That point where perspective fails
Is a sharp and shameless end
A failure, yes I must confess
For I have preached and I have practiced
And yet I have managed to fester a mess
Acquired a weightless collection of because
While fate heckles with his game of luck
Conducting an explicit scene
That has made a joke out of my childish dream
Finding solace in the irregularity of unearthly absolutes
I will carry my sore knees, drag my swollen knuckles
To rescue the sweet of my laborious fruits
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 9:30 PM UTC
Your anonymous blog
To my face you are kindness itself:
cheerful, always upbeat,
but in your anonymous blog
you rip me apart.
You press your thumb and forefinger on each side,
hold, pull and rend,
and rupture my very innards.
You focus on me,
my life, my words, my actions and my body
like you are a Celestron Telescope
searching for every single crater and irregularity.
With an Ultima Barlow lens
and your Leica M9 18MP
You grab each natural image
and then rearrange reality with
your precious, perversely pesuasive, periscopic Photoshop technique.
poetic liberty has leased you a license to assassinate,
humiliate,
decimate,
invalidate,
severely lambaste,
and mockingly castrate
everything that I identify as me.
literary freedom allows you to liberally fabricate,
mutilate,
denigrate,
incriminate,
scathingly castigate,
and maliciously urinate
on what others think of me.
To my face you are kind beyond selflessness,
but on your online beat,
your anonymous malevolence
sets you apart
from all the others
that have ever wanted
to write me up,
put me down,
and publish me out.
– Zumwalt (2011) (copied from www.zumpoems.com)
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 8:53 AM UTC
The sun glares down
Over lost, weary travellers,
Casting crimson
Over the rolling dunes.
Their shadows
Fall upon the sand;
An ocean of tiny little grains—
Moving,
Always moving
Under the wind,
Like travellers themselves—
Millions of them,
Moving,
Shifting,
Changing,
Constantly inconstant.
The lines atop the dunes—
The divide where light and dark
Separate,
Alter their shape
With the shifts in the sand,
Wriggling like a snake.
This view,
This world
Of rolling dunes,
Stark segregations of light and dark,
Sandy, cutting winds,
Was not made for strangers—
For these poor wanderers.
They wander,
Like tiny ants,
Upon an endless, reddened landscape,
So far from their nest—
Made up of grand structures,
Taller than they are vast,
Crafted carefully,
Brick by brick.
Unshifting,
Unchanging,
Stark and clear against the sky.
Far too compact
To allow room for wandering.
Glass and stone—
A wall against the winds.
A place
Where these strangers weren’t strangers.
It was there—
Right there.
Standing above the dunes,
Reaching out of the sand
Into a pink expanse of clouds.
But no,
These strangers
Remain strangers,
Wandering a world
Of harsh beauty
And wondrous irregularity.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:01 AM UTC
I sit still and watch
With eyes sharp enough to cut
As the grey ocean foam
Crashes on the sea wall
Hundreds of black stones
All with difference and irregularity
Stacked layer upon layer upon layer
Now wet, but still greatly unwashed
I sit on the edge
And look down on my feet
I scrape the callouses on stone
The sea foam washes but doesn't clean
I watch as the ocean turns black
My feet kicks the relentless foam
The stone wall remains intact
So I crumble in its place
The sea drags me out
I drink the abysmal drink
I sway to the whims of a lonely moon
I crash on a wall of indifference and regularity
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
I can't forget the past
Which shaped the way
My heart currently beats
With such irregularity
Heartbreak is painful
To say the least
But at best
You will never love again
For fear of having
Your happiness shattered
Your heart split in two
Your image of them tarnished
After they find someone
Who they think
Is better suited for them
Than you ever were
And the only thing you can do
Is wish you were dead
Because the person
Who used to make your heart beat
Will be the one
Who rips it out of your chest
And takes it with them
On their way off to forever
Forever, without you
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
The wanderer walks more then he talks fished in a *** of emotions asteroid
torn by the fact that time is a plant
of which can't be regrown when grown on a slant
oh surface what is my purpose?
why am I here? what am I after?
what is my fear?
Stuck in a haze
of being afraid of the future
I'm the wanderer of night
The walker of the shadows
my feet glide lightly beneath the
street & it's gravel
I'm peeping at the living
within the holes of their hollows
Wondering if there lives are a cycle
Go to sleep, Go to work,
Go where ever the light glows
Follow the crowd, be a part of the now
Your past actions will only be known as a noun, I've figured it out, I've opened the spout
The opportunities are endless there just flowing about
the waters of remembrance are very shallow, and impact must be heavy to make a splash
Do what you love, and your passions will truly last
Don't be stuck in the past, instead, thrive on what's here today
This message is retrospective
echoed in constant delay
As I walk deeper into the dark this is what I truly say....L...O...S...T
it's hard to stay on track when you've mentally lost perspective
When everything you've known turns unfamiliar within seconds
Is this good energy?
or the spread of an infection?
I need a tower of fortune cookies
to hold my lessons
For when that tower crashes
it will crumble into a message
Do I search for more? or do I stay inside the common section?
I'm searching for the uncommon and people of rarity
Who can explain the emotions
of human irregularity?
Will I sustain my vision of singularity
art crafted in loops
repetition brings recognition to patterns covered from clarity
This is just a turn of the leaf
roots of the past years die off
they become obsolete, as we drift deeper into forms of technology, we suddenly find people in the form of anomalies
Look outside your window and standing there I will be, a stranger in the night
Peeping through windows for company
Only searching for answers that all of us seem to seek
Who will I be today and the following week
Who will I meet today that will change who I want to be
These are thoughts of the wanderer waking amount the streets
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
Before I grew up so fast
I once believed I was a good kid, back when I had never seen the world
Where life was just like the stages of the day and moments passed and carried on
But that day I always remember when a new emotion, where I was hurled
To a new territory, to a never before seen place
Where kids began to find it funny on what others looked like
How it mattered to have a flawless face
No blemishes
No scars
No indications of any irregularity could be found
For if it was, kids ended up"outside the club"
Forever bound
To the snickers of others
And incessant gossip of cliques
Where mothers and fathers would ask you how your day went
But all you ever said was "fine"
Not wanting to say what he or she at school had said
Which made you feel self conscience for the briefest of moments
The first time someone had mentioned that of the few
Eligible to possibly join that group
Your nose was too big or your ethnicity didn't match up
And you sauntered on down the hall alone between each passing class
Each day became another fight
To impress the people you envied so
And though you say you envied not
It was always in the back of your mind
Keeping up with the fashion trends
Bending your mind to things you'd "get used to"
And forcing yourself to be who you were not
Each passing day metaphorically new.
The make-up or new shoes you had to acquire
Becoming a liar, and for those passing moments
Refusing to admit you changed, you turned into the envy you held inside
And anger formed
For as long as you sought to be the one that held the "popular seat"
You could not meet the standards of those who ran the school
Those who set those fashion trends and controlled the halls
With glaring eyes, bending the heads of those who weren't "cool" to their feet
Your anger became a sorrowful doubt
Doubt which turned your insides out
Doubling the pain of exclusion
And adding only insult to the injury
Perhaps one day you realized fast,
That maybe at last you're free from those kids
Who held your talent down to shame
And made lunch a funny game
To see if maybe today you would sit alone
Again and again, each passing day
And I apologize
For on that day
Under that quiet December sky
I witnessed that game, the cool kids played
And sat back and only observed
For who was I to say anything
Paint a target on my back
Yet confidence I did so lack
And on that day I went on my way
As if nothing had ever happened.
Perhaps we all went through this once
Witnesses to a bully
Name called "stupid or "dunce"
Yet we all sat back and watched
And till today I sit
Typing this apology
Realizing I could have made a difference
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
to those times we layed together
side by side and serene
savouring the presence of one another
my head at ease in your chest
hand-in-hand feet all tangled up
comfortably within your longing caress
my bare skin against yours
shyly but surely
and i could not ask for more
to those times shared with our passion
filled with adoration and lust
and yearning for the true thing just lovelorn
they said we were mistaken
they said we were too young
but how would they know if we still haven't
yes we were out of our mind
and yes we were craving
intertwined inseparable and maybe even blind
labelled as silly as can be
but if love meant wacky to them
then we might've been just beyond crazy
to those times we bonded
all my dilemmas all my burdens
seemed to be all mended
for all my sorrows all my hardships
you gave nothing but strength
and took care of every little bits
laughed away our pains
smoked away our lives
in a sense shared the same brain
compatible within our sanity
understood and in relation
and likewise within our irregularity
to those times we've fought not each other
strong willing and dedicated
we fought together
to stop our melancholic thoughts
love and live in tranquility
and prevail with all our worth
to those moments that we were one
together or conjointly or in unison
we were intoxicated and infatuated
can't you remember, my dearly beloved?
-djs
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 8:10 PM UTC
Is what we perceive truly subject to the constraints of our linguistic and conceptual phenomena?
Our ******* assertions are provocative, as they proudly stand and penetrate the depths of prevalent and superficial exaltations.
We perch upon the thin branch of various tenses in the plight of our eclectic articulations, whilst the irregularity of the shape does not hold significance.
Our cognitive representations of reproductive and anatomical semantics are like gothic architecture, where flamboyant and erogenous zones of liberation succumb to transcendental towers of majestic hauntings.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
He told me
"I think I could love you."
And buried under my skin.
I've never felt better
As nausea bubbles within
I touch his cheeks
So warm with blood
I feel him
He's harrier than you,
And bigger too.
If you're not catching my wind flow
I feel as if you need to howl a bit more
I reply to the irregularity of his
Immaturity at age 22.
Yet you're only 12 in space years.
So I get it.
I'm high off of singular drum beats
And your breath is
hot chocolate based.
Kiss the scoreboard for luck.
I want you to touch my neck again
Maybe for a second
You're so healthy.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 2:02 AM UTC
i hear the collective understanding
of dry sticks as they crack
the shock of alarm signals
like the migratory diaspora
of birds flying south
vibrates across tingling nerves
causing a necklace of choking
to grip at the throat
shivering I try to find a grave
I am watched from the summit of a hill
as a conflagration spreads
flames quiver
orange, yellow, purple, blue
there is an irregularity of thought
within me
my bones will soon
be pitched into debris
a petrified shiver
they still watch from
the summit of the hill
i collapse, gripped with a fear
of a permanent consignment
like that of dropping into a hollow
my face becomes plum stained
the income of breath becomes
a tenacious gasp
smoke swirls around me
blinding my red eyes
I become a misshapen
component of myself
standing like an effigy
hands raised in supplication
hysterically I try to
rid myself of this tyranny
find no distinguishable form
no solidified inquisitive intent
I rush and lash out
with a galvanised
inner adrenalin raised frenzy
a red sun appears
on the summit of the hill
ferocious in its heat
it lacks all euphony
and disintegrates with
debarring light
now speechless and cold
i fear the wind will find me
i move, burrow back
into a darkness
fire strokes across a green canvas
i am fault and disappear
without trace
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
Her, never having known ‘her,’
the idea,
‘her’
becomes an irregularity for me.
it is not part of my schema. that vantage of man,
as the synthesized post-coital.
nevertheless,
her frame rises up stairs,
petaluma sad wink
watch her disappear behind the half wall.
furtive glances into you.
lone, and left wandering.
when we travel along our vectors,
we fail to consider that our bodies are not whole, complete entities,
they are porous, and the closer in,
do we realize that borders of flesh and air,
are indeterminable.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
I've never met anyone like you before
Anyone so clear, so simple, uncomplicated
Black rolled-up sleeves bare your heart
Pink lips that trip over incalculable risk
You are a cosmic irregularity
A consummate anomaly
A grammatical inconsistency
A mathematical improbability
The type that always knows what it wants
And that, you say, is me.
I've never met anyone like you before
I don't know if I ever will again
I didn't know what I wanted
Now I know
It's you.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 5:11 PM UTC
my nose now runs seasonallyfrom sigh droplets
every new season celebrated by the constant continuation
of its running from, running to ?, or as I joke,
from September to September inclusive
but something new, my eyes now watery, a permanente daily irregularity, the imaginary laundry lady whines consistently, as she cannot always locate, prior to machine insertion, for all my secret hiding places of the always everywhere ***** tissues!
“too many pockets, too many tissues,” she underbreath mumbles,
but secretly I observe her similarly daubing~dabbing of the eyes,
in this time of constant sorrow, no one immunized, the sigh droplets
pass through any mask and gown, and then become full time residents
wry thinking, “let he or she who is without stone, cast the first tissue”
but we are all ****** all the time, heavy heaving, eyes tearing and
noses running
it don’t take much, the continuous reportage batters me and turning
away from my electronics impossible, they now hard wired inside the maniac-brainiac, wifi’d, from every side, even a actual glance outside at the desert of our dehumanized streetscapes always amazes
we no longer worry that every sniffle or tear
is a warning sign of a more serious ailment;
no, we understand too well this is a sad spirit inside,
it’s symptoms unleashed but un-lethal, the antibody
to a weariness that has no name, only tissues that
cannot cure nor disinfect
Apr 20, 2020
Apr 20, 2020 at 11:55 AM UTC
cracks me up
this erroneous error message,
looks at me and states authoritatively
nuh-uh, buddy, “it ain’t you you babe,
it ain’t you we looking for babe”
makes me crazy crying
copiously betw snorting fits of
eloquent derision
why oh why
is it daily savings time prematurely
(immaturely) aging me,
be it advancing decrepitude
or just the AI’s sullen attitude?
be it a secret messaging that my
mother’s slow descent into
senility, loss of speech is now me-
visible to the all seeing eyes on
a dollar bill, & or the iPhone genie?
this erroneous messaging appears
with an irregularity regular, just
enough to make me think that
this
is
not
accidental
come to nyC,
come me to see,
need an independent
judgement summary
please
before the winter pale overcomes my
poetic resistance and they park me
in the backyard, where I can sit yet,
studying for multiple hours
the river-fed bay on its way
to the vastness of the Atlantic
Ocean, where the water will combine.
all cells of each of our selected
those chosen body’s of water,
bodies now interring,
while populating
intermingling
taking stingling diatoms from
of each, they will kiss, greet, each other,
with the clarity of recognition that our
poetry has already bonded us in ways that are irrefutable, been coming long time
geological formations new and old,
still forces unstoppable foreseeing
every, every ever
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 6:46 AM UTC
*
Love is an icon of infinity;
Maintains a sense of eternity;
An essence of everlasting purity;
Wipes out all other uncertainty;
Lust is a symbol of extremity;
brings out irregularity;
Destroying the sweet memories
of a beginning and all the
fears of an ending; in between
Love conquers all territories;
Kills all enemies at the borders;
Let us surrender to Love;
And not to lust and dust!
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
[email protected]
www.williamsji.com
www.shanthinagar.com
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
cause im laying here under the projected stars
i turned out the lights
and made a trip to aeroponics
to pick up those fungi you so humbly requested
so put down your earl grey (hot)
take off your shoes
let your hair down with me
and lets look at the stars
not the ones out of the window
but the ones glimmering on the screen
and pretend we're just at the planetarium
back on earth
home
ill massage your feet
and we will proceed to laugh
and roll around under the consoles
but NO TICKLING
you remember what happened last time
ill tweak the access to the room
and you
you will pretend like this is
your first time
i will to
ill shake and shiver
and you
well you just be however you were
before you met me
authoritative, stern and expecting
not of child
but of an ensign who knows
how to get the job done
with nary an irregularity
earning every pip
for valiance in the line of duty
wounds endured in battle
courage under fire
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
I wasn't the same after that night.
At first I didn't notice it
But then, through the simple pleasures,
Like reading a book
Or baking a cake
Or reflecting,
I knew I had changed,
As if you altered something in my soul that night
Switched some wires
And forgot to switch them back..
Leaving me in an irregularity.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
Upon entering the vast crystal dome
we venture through the endless
that such vile creatures call home.
Before me, occurring a ghastly sight
of those cursed to these depths
are confined to the blackest night.
Embedded into the surrounding walls,
irregularity complicates the network
when one wanders the immortal halls
of a timeless place that captures its victims
to intensify the thoughts inside their head,
eluding the state of true mortem.
With heavy rope held agonizingly tense
woven within their eyes and mouth
blocking all intellection of the sense,
the creatures meander aimlessly forevermore
nervous and cautious of their movements,
bloodied and grimy from the soot-ridden floor.
I question my Lover out of curiosity:
“Why must these souls dwell in a daunting
labyrinth without physical perceptivity?”
And the Lover addressed sweetly: “My one and only,
Greed is a moral infection of the human mind,
be wary of the heart and the desire Lustfully.”
He then turned, and I followed him through
up to a Beast whom I would not dare test
for he validates the lack of your virtues.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
Angel's heed
Master the vice, we sow in a due language?
Set to rights, and kept in eaves
Wasn't a friend to liberate, the eyes of an entourage?
Western courage's
The taste of tones of voice, a ply's tongue?
Able to remain in light, the irony which lingers...
Have is a calmer today, now in demand, among
Commands and irregularity's stones
In the hands of futures with a need, anon
Since, to wealth in named loans...
Of passions redoubt, the deed of love, is coming...
Open airs of motive and suggestion
Made for a like and wisdom of values, we took
To unrest for a need to be, a morality in lessons...?
That began here in our hands, and ended with a look...
Of subtlety and a rosy forecast
The modesty of requiem, the taste of harmony
Is a relationship with ideology, which in your hap
Is a caught sense of poise, that assumes youth is won't...
The call of the home, directions of duty, done
Avid to legends meteoric advance on poignancy, evoked
The truth in long rays of sunshine and the voice of what was
A day for sincerity to sit in the sight, of what was, our hope...
Jul 4, 2022
Jul 4, 2022 at 3:23 PM UTC