"iterations" poems
i see the words floating on
message boards or perched
upon the lips of jocular hypocrites
double-standards that demand
sensual chastity and virginal sexuality
in endless iterations of irony
the concussive
monosyllabic words
slung like stones
cast like arrows
****
*****
*****
all labels for
women possessed of
the courage to pursue
their own passion
once upon a time a
Nazarene insisted a ********** had
more integrity than a rich
statesman throwing self-serving parties
so tell me why so
many Christian politicians
propagate patriarchal notions of depravity
in blanket attempts to regulate
the bodies of women
if being anti-choice was really
about preventing abortions
why do rich right-wing conservative
Republicans spend all their time
and money picketing free clinics
when the solution lies in comprehensive
****** education universal healthcare
complimentary birth control
and comprehensive child support
don't dare use the reprehensible
rhetoric of pro-life unless you're
at once anti-war
and anti-death penalty
riddle me this
what pray tell is the
difference between a jealous
religious misogynist
and a secular sexist
it's rather simple actually
while the former bases his
slut-shaming on the edicts of
a two thousand year old letter to
the Corinthians inconspicuously
sandwiched between a celebration of
love and a section on speaking in tongues
the latter’s learned behavior is
birthed by a hyper-masculine culture
grounded in dominance
either way we await the day
when wild women raze
these ideologies
with torches before
rising like phoenixes
from the ashes of
decimated passages
dismissed by intellectuals
as archaic and outmoded
deaf blind and dumb to
the vestiges of modernity
that sap unscientific
philosophies of their potency
and render them utterly obsolete
in their wake
these proud women
erase the hate
from words like
****
*****
*****
and reclaim equality
with a far more
comprehensive term
feminist
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
In all my iterations, and my frequent reiterations,
Introspection reflection, run a muck, I find it unnecessary
To talk to God; the reason being quite simple, is
It and I are in constant dialogue, nary a pause, chattering
Round the clock, 24 seven, night and day, sleep interruptus,
I think to myself God has some nerve,
why can't he bother others?
in other parts of the world…
And so he does!
Visitors from far away lands, and languages I do not understand, but applaud their attempts to decipher the English one, that we share in common; if the lands are exotic, the names are more delightfully so, almost ****** It excites and titillates, to greet these kindred souls whose words be greeted by puzzlement, intrigue, like the delight of rediscovering vanilla, it's the same language spoken differently!
and god smiles and says:
"knew you would eventually speak my soul language!'"
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 11:23 AM UTC
that night, i wore a polo shirt.
i thought *hey, i'm going to a friend's
dorm, no need to dress up, right?*
so i wore a polo shirt, a yellow and blue and pink
thing. i'd bought it from a charity shop
only weeks earlier, when i was still exploring
a new university town
and finding not-so-hidden gems;
and sure, it was three sizes too big
but it was comfortable, and made me feel safe.
turns out, you didn't care about polo shirts
or tank tops. you cared about what was underneath
and i was drunk enough to let you - or,
well, not really let you, but i didn't need to dress up
so i wore baggy clothes and a smile
so i had half a bottle of jack daniels
and i had a nineteen year old point to prove
and i had a pill that you gave me
and i had - sorry, have - a therapist's bill.
but this isn't about you. i don't write about you.
i make a point of not writing about you,
actually. which is to say that i write about you
in a way that doesn't let you hurt me anymore.
i write about what i was wearing
(did i deserve it? in my 1970s male t-shirt?)
or what i was drinking
(it was university)
or how i tried to throw myself into a river
in the aftermath
(but i didn't, because i got thirsty, and i didn't
want to die thirsty, so i went home).
no, i'm writing about the polo shirt i was wearing.
cotton, i think. polyester, probably.
the amazing technicolour haze of am i sober enough for this?
who knows how many iterations
of the same lancaster charity shop
it circled through, old men with families
and wives and kids -
it probably saw birthdays and christmases
and, safely tucked in the back of a closet,
shielded itself from the almost-crisis of cuban missiles.
and then, me. a nineteen year old
branching out into the world for the first time;
a lover of poetry, maker of music, naïve and beautiful.
then, it was just a polo shirt, and i wore it
as long as it was laundered, for a month or so,
until december. not that i stopped wearing it
because it was cold. it just reminded me of hands
and hands and hands and
**** how many hands can a man have?
how long will i have to feel them?
i didn't shower the day after, just slept.
a hangover, right? just a hangover.
and then, when the hot water in my dorm
daily ticked on, i washed every inch of myself
to get rid of you, and your foam banana shower gel
that your mother probably told you to buy.
so, what compensation do you owe me?
what price should i put on things?
you touch it, so you pay for it.
one charity shop shirt, three pounds please.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 10:55 PM UTC
I am at the fire as I would likely be, come the chill
hours of inactivity, having gathered up the dead
detritus from the yard and put to match some old
wood rested on it. The lifeless pile took flame
with greed, as if surprised by need of it,
and gratefully gave itself to be consumed by fire.
For a time the world is all ablaze, all red
and yellow hot upon my face, flush with pregnant
sparks giving birth to ever greater iterations of fire.
Then I think let it all burn, all that is useless;
let it burn, all that is cast off and idle; in my mind
an eternal flame, even as the wood before my eyes
melts to ash and climbs to heaven on a pillar
of smoke. Ash settles down to earth with me,
ash in the air darting through shadows, bitter
on the tongue, gray in the hair. The universe
is cold; the space between the stars blank.
The bodies of the universe are all ash.
As long as there is flame I stay with it. I inch
closer as the cold elbows in, jealous of my place.
I stir. Chars catch a breath and come to light,
soon fading, embers weary of their work, blinking
heavy eyed, nodding off to sleep. When at length
all that can burn has burned, refined to its last
remains, glowing scarlet crystal, intensity wanting fuel
denied, I leave it to its vultures, satisfied
all becomes at last what does endure.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
iteration
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
wake
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
wash
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
coffee
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
cigarette
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
dress
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
work
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
work
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
relax
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
eat
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
relax
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat
Continue iterations until cycle complete .....
sleep
sleep
sleep ...
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
Past altered states tests postive and subtle
******* So and so's teeter Paleolithic après time puddles
And submit terrible philosphies
Ashy stubble ticks politics
and sacrafice to peer approval sacralige
Test probably appears stable
Top patriarch's able suddenly to
Pop above submerged tables possibly
After, something tests patience awkwardly
Stumps tarot practioners and *** testers poor application sterily
Topology plain, astrology scorpio
Torpedo power aptly strikes to pedal antlers sour
Take particular appointments
Stop testing please apply sorted
Terror power and sexless torn pigs
afterhours pen and store tips, plow.
Alter simians testosterone, pow!
As scientists type papers about sexing tasteless past alligator snouts
testing partly after science takes party alliance south to pawn army
subtle tipped passion. artsy.
Start these.
pick atoms smarmy
Tally past all sentences take pride
As stencils test pestilence. And sigh.
The previous alterations simply tried.
And didn't work, hence the present
Path lit incandescent.
I'm looking towards the east waiting for positivity to peak
You're turned backwards nostalgic for something that'll never come repeat.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
Eskimos have a Gazillion
words for snow. We have
teraflop words for coffee.
Wikipedia it!
But don't get distracted
by the Tales.
Recounted stories of empires
held together by zeitgeist brand,
a belief, a set of ritual,
buying in bulk, a role of thumb,
opposable heuristics.
They've clustered history
in bunches like expanding
matter, as if it matters
who was king or Augustus.
Empires & civilization
held colloidal by the quirks
of geology and brand
feeding food-forward
with ritualistic sacrifice
in Megazillion iterations.
From Fertile crescent to Nile
Valley silicon, when we bind
ourselves to brand,
and move in belief,
secure in synchronized stability,
then comes the rubric cubes
miraculously built high
upon slave backs, holding
pyramidal server tombs.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
pull back the thin veneer
of pretense that obfuscates
this holiday season
profuse excuses of joy and peace
are hollow and brittle and leave
bitter proof of our lackluster compassion
expose the specter
of greed
dormant in capitalism
vestiges of a dying culture
the refuse of an apathetic
American people numb
to the trauma inflicted
by megalomaniacal leaders
consent given implicitly
in the complacency of obedient conformity
will we refuse to acknowledge
the stains on our hands this Christmas
red liquid misting our faces
bloodlust and endless war
there’s no
rhyme or reason
to these
sycophantic intonations
deafening these words of treason
in vain attempts to assuage guilt
with endless iterations
of false hopes and puny gods in
brainless trying to defy reality
we belie our true intentions
our self-serving obsessions
and inane consumption
hazes of the mundane
in suburban graves
if the greatest gift is giving itself
we won’t find solace in the holy temples
of strip malls shopping centers
and corporate retail palaces
a Friday as black as our fractured hearts
witness the death of humanity
choking out all we were
grateful for the day before
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
say something or just
keep on makin' ghost-patterned, intervening silences,
singing
or half-murmuring
verses, those ones from slow songs under low light,
the same refrain that runs between all the others,
through the passage of weeks, stained tobacco sweet by eleven-thirty iterations;
* [post-meridian or particulate matters only,
of course,
it's hard to wake before noon anymore.]*
with the way these rhythms keep us down
and out,
counting the methods-
the summations of potential miseries,
and the probabilities that all would or could turn around, before the end of the week.
or the next one.
and,
outside the door, the one after that,
over the acres of concrete and pale shade,
streetlit likenesses hushing air through melting neighbourhoods,
I make imaginary footprints,
wondering which, of the field of household starlit comforts,
is the blade of grass you cast seeds from
to inadvertently germinate and sprout a well of aspiration, the wind in a stranger's ribcage,
continually growing, hiccoughing leaf litter,
with every last breath.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 6:24 AM UTC
there is a glacier
partially concealed
melting from a climactic
climate shift revealing a
reality congealed by revolt
rebels burdened with
a philosophy that
elevates humanity
insisting we will not grovel
before a vain messiah
espousing erroneous
iterations of ideology
will the human race permit
the iceberg to dissolve
as vapid reformist
rhetoric inundates our
political consciousness with
pragmatic progressivism
or will we rise in resistance
with the radicals
fists clenched in protest and
hands outstretched to one
another rather than
lifted high in praise to a savior as we
witness the glacier solidify once more
as CO2 perforates our atmosphere
with heady highs and noxious toxins
will we succumb like dumbfounded
addicts intoxicated by inoculation
consuming the opiated semantics
of charismatic personas or will we
challenge the corrupt
with our wits about us
facing the sobering corporate
corporeality with the pride
of lions facing a den of thieves
abandon the chosen champion
of the vanguard party
we stand hand-in-hand
7 billion
sisters and brothers
in an anthemic chorus of
solidarity that shakes the
bastions of the enthroned
with the resounding shouts of
perseverance in our
non-compliant defiance
our manifestos are written
in the blood sweat and tears
we've shed for this
dream deferred
and we will not be the
silent majority anymore
the masque of anarchy
is ours to share
will we wear its visage
or will hell freeze over
before we choose
freedom
over happiness
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
i hear the whistle of a mockingjay
play every time someone says your name.
a rebel girl in a patriarchal world
defying the absurd iterations of hyper-masculine
oppression that manifest themselves in solipsistic
displays of impotent aggression.
how do you muster the compassion
to forgive seventy times seven?
i want to learn to love like you.
the white noise fades away
when you and i fly
down the interstate.
the breeze teases
your hair, the sun
kisses your face
the way i'd like to.
i hope you hear my voice
every time one of our favorite songs
gets stuck inside your head,
singing in time to the rhythms of love requited.
have faith in me.
and i'm trying hard—
real hard—every day
not to lose my temper
with these circumstantial quandaries
that leave us wondering whether or not
we should press pause.
instead i'll climb the mountains
of your vertebrae so i might find
a resting place in the holiest of holies.
if only i could shrink myself down,
dance between the synaptic gaps of your brain cells,
i could see reality through your eyes—
twirling like twin nebulae,
galaxies inviting me to endless epiphanies.
i want to lose myself in your universe.
your courage is infectious.
when i hold your hand,
i summon the strength to smash the State
and all the arbitrary authorities
trying to dictate the limits of liberty,
that instigate injustice and propagate malice.
it all just falls away until it's you and me,
forever us against them all.
you're like Hermione,
time-turner included,
feeding the homeless,
leading a women's health group,
acting for a short film,
directing a play,
writing a novel,
all in a day's work.
and you breathe white-hot fire
when you fight for the disenfranchised
recognizing that those who are neutral
in situations of injustice have chosen
the side of the oppressor and it's quite
impressive how you stand-up for
the little guy or invite the social acolyte over
to your table to have a bite of whatever
vegetarian dish you cooked up last night.
i see you on the silver screen,
in each new book i read ,
in every single note i sing,
latent remnants in recited rhymes
of poetry from the one and only Bukowski:
i found what i love
and i want it to **** me.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
As far back as I can remember, i always wanted to be a gangster.
-Quote by Ray liotta in good fellas movie.-
“Nothing personal, it’s just business” ~ Otto Berman
“Las Vegas turns women into men and men into idiots.” ~ Bugsy Siegel.
“This life of ours, this is a wonderful life. If you can get through life like this and get away with it, hey, that’s great. But its very, very unpredictable. There’s so many ways you can ***** it up.” ~ Paul Castellano
Thirty-two hundred dollars he gave me. Thirty-two hundred dollars for a lifetime. It wasn’t even enough to pay for the coffin.” (ray liotta as Henry hill) good fellas movie.
“I hate to say this, but this place is getting to me. I think I’m getting the fear.” Dr. Gonzo( fear and loathing in Las Vegas)
“If my answers frighten you then you should cease asking scary questions.” Jules. ( movie pulp fiction with John travolta and Samuel l. Jackson. Also starring bruce Willis.)
“No matter how big a guy might be, Nicky would take him on. You beat Nicky with fists, he comes back with a bat. You beat him with a knife, he comes back with a gun. And you beat him
with a gun, you better **** him, because he’ll keep comin’ back and back
until one of you is dead.” Ace Rothstein ( movie Casino) Robert deniro, Joe pesci.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
it wasn't as though he shoulda seen it coming
(God knows he muddled through that one well enough)
and it wasn't as though he thought it in the bag
(the whole **** thing had always seemed ****** daunting)
but these now recurring tasks
and pop-up commitments
were wavering him
*a great big pain the ***
burdensome, machine like
lacking, of any particular meaning
now there was that element of perseverance
that he had read and lectured on (oh, how he had lectured on and on!)
but he was not fully accustomed
(having flown on a wing and a prayer)
to the shattered routines
and fallen plans
obligatory iterations
and post-mortem like sessions
(seemed easier to stack em up, and
shelve em in a somewhat manageable way)
but a rhythm evolved
in simple momentum, and truth
new plateaus, and revelations
transformative unfoldings
and cosmic events
(which appeared as gifts from above)
and they paved a path to growth
eyes opened, to the wonders of the world!
a grounding in an earthly connection
narratives reclaimed
adjustments made
faith, and fellowship
first steps, compromise
and gratitude
filling the center stage
(in kaleidoscope colour!)
in this glorious
and ever evolving
play of life
~
was it worth it old friend?
*you bet your *** it was!
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 10:52 AM UTC
Contradicting indicators
Past experience
Scraped away
Accumulated iterations
My a priori
Yesterdays
Final augmented reality
Melding of layers
Cleansing clay
My hallowed now where pagan past was
Empty white parchment
For today
r ~ 27Feb14
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
We joined the group at the bottom of the cracked stone steps, some of them were barefoot
Roots and twigs bending and contorting
A collection of those repressed failed attempts, of blood and memory, joy and visceral pains left behind
She was new, moving with grace and apprehension
Her voice swam into my ear so effortlessly
As if the drum and cord had been sealed by string
Were you meant to? Were we meant, too
Did you find your way through barracks and empty closets?
Or through delicate spoons and an architect’s vision of the future?
What difference does it really make, in the end
She moved closer, saying that my intuition was the only thing saving us all from another life cycle, the replicated experience, of a collapsed star
That the scars all pointed in the same direction, to the garden where we stood, still
At an impasse between flipping through an old photo album, ripping at the seams
And the light shining on the white flowers and moss on the forest floor
They’re waiting for you on the North shore, they’ve been waiting a very long time
The Doldrums shifted, the tides adjusted from a decades long fixed position, the sails followed
Their many voices whispered over my shoulder
“it’s the only direction we haven’t tried yet”
Jul 21, 2021
Jul 21, 2021 at 6:13 AM UTC
We live our single lives
whether with friend, girl, boy
husband, wife or family.
We live our single life.
That is the American Way,
and certainly not
the United Way.
We're taught to lift
ourselves up, bootstrapping.
So I keep sampling
my heart with replacements,
hoping against the odds
that mean means something,
and normal distribution doesn't
give Gaussian grouse.
Or could it be
I'm strapping myself
to the wrong boot
and all my recursive
iterations are yielding
a false curve
to my zero coupon life?
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
"Thank you" died on pasted lips.
A hairsbreadth length from freedom
flew up and rattled
strumming vocal chords like guitar strings,
'til struck into a barrier
like lapping waves against stone cold concrete
"let..me....ouuuuut....."
gasping
flopping on land
overflows, in flows of oxygen
can't breathe,
like a fish out of water.
can't break through,
like water trapped by a dam.
cannot forgive,
to give a second chance.
Disillusioned
by a little secret I love you.
decrease the time step
and let the iterations skip beats
get there faster
with less accuracy
if...................for...................while
end. % for loop termination
Error in line 18-unknown message.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
How many complete pathways of choices are there?
OR
How many choices are left to achieve completion [!]
Either offers an accurate divisor into the number of possibilities "n" roughly at whatever is the above determined level which is a power called "m". n^m, roughly...divided by either the # of pathways or the choices that are left [!] to completion.
Either divisor will serve by ridding us of duplicate iterations of over-multiplied possibilities inside of roughly n^m.
Put another way, simple estimations of "n" at the indicated power level do not recognize that
1) more than one path arrives to a conclusion;
Nor do simple estimations at indicated power levels recognize that
2) apparent particulars from which to work toward completion are actually not different particulars--half of them are double counted at the level of being two choices from complete due to the dimensionality of the whole becoming complete.
So the impact of having a divisor is strongest either when:
1) working toward completion from levels that already include almost all dimensions of particulars or else
2) whenever operating at low levels of power which have only a few pathways.
Estimations of possibilities are easily too high if not considering the adjustments for cases 1) and 2).
These are for occasions of having more than one possibility.
However:
The number of complete outcomes that are reachable, divided by all choosable pathways = n/n = 1 .
Or else, any one outcome chosen from its penultimate particulars through to completeness = 1/1 = 1 .
Thus,
Singular possibility is by definition, complete, whole, created, ultimate, and embraced in all of its dimensions. It is both one easily won and/or one, fully, dimensionally itself.
(Whatever is not and is not divided,
or, is nothing left unchosen
= truly naught and something not found = 0.)
Sources: Closed dimensional choice paths (the geometry of the powers depicted) and Pascal's Triangle
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 5:50 AM UTC
Idol Life
When you've read the holy scriptures of countless wise fanatics
When you've pondered the tallied tales of positive thinkers
When you've sailed the seas of helpful suggestions and poignant promises
When you've chosen choices cast in caring coy iterations
When you've jumped up and down embracing the enthusiasm of enthusiasts
When you've done years upon years of carefully crafted…eating…praying...loving
When you've walked down endless miles of isles to alluring altars
When you've run, climbed and stood in search of joy
And
When you have nothing more to show for it than a collection of geometric idols and savvy souvenirs
Cast in cried out salt and stripped marrow…
Are you done?
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
I miss you
I miss your style
I miss that compassionate smile
You've only been gone a little while, but...
I miss you
My search history is basically just different iterations of the same set of words
What's the time difference between our worlds?
This whole time zone thing is ******** me up
but I'm trying my best
I love talking to you
I still get nervous when we text
I need to find out what you're doing, where you're going next
I have the picture you drew for me on my desk
My brother tried to touch it but I smacked him;
there's not much else that you left behind
Every time I see it I'm reminded of you
but it's kinda redundant,
because you never leave my mind
I wish you were sitting here beside me
You're always causing that crazy feeling inside me
It's not quite the same, digitally
I miss you
I miss your kind eyes
Your heart of unbelievable size
I miss you
It feels like it's been forever
But I never
Stop thinking
Of you
You're living in the future,
I'm living in the past
Replaying my moments with you
over and over
Trying, hoping, to make them last
Miles and miles in between me and you
Maybe you miss me too
I miss you
I'm blushing just picturing
our memories made this spring
Something about you
If only you knew
how amazing you are
and that you shine much brighter
than any other star
Your amber irises melt me
I don't know, maybe you've felt me
Trying to reach you mentally
Trying to tell you
I miss you
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
There are times when sound can seem empty
And the seams of our reality appear seamless
As they wind and twist upon themselves
Creating a multifaceted facade of perception
About the world
Both full of optimism, yet also very skeptical, and pessimistic
When it comes to life
It is within these moments that clarity can be found
Between the mores of an individuals foundation;
Where action speaks louder than words and time looses all relevance
Like the beat of your heart as I lean close to purge the monotony of the silence
That pumps
Thump
.
Thump
.
Thump
Not at all dissimilar to the steady eyes that stare back for long loving moments
Saying more than any cleverly designed line or stanza
Penned by a poet looking to quantify human expression
Into the rapid compression of words that can neither be proven
Nor disproven
Amongst the extreme variations or iterations
That reiterate the same base emotion that motivates the pen
As the paper runs out of lines to spin I begin
Again to listen to the empty air that, in my mind, has became paired
And aware of the natural connection that supercedes and transcends
My thoughts as I'm lying next to you
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
when suffering's luster loses glow,
when overcoming is never known,
what dreams may come from fire below,
lonesome moments, ever-boding,
misery imposed, for evermore,
glorious warnings from sordid war,
of freedom imploring,
indifference ignoring,
and discontent exploring our stratosphere...
measly metamorphs,
wearily forcing inaction forward,
desperately sourcing mortality,
fallacy after fallacy fall to their knees,
umpteen deviations,
outlandish iterations, exhausted,
accost me no more, mister consciousness,
for I've already given in,
just when my sin uncovers itself,
befuddled and bereft, at the gates of hell,
the self dispenses its painful beliefs:
that nothing comes without leaving,
remains we bequeath only provide what's conceded,
so seek what is needed,
impede not the other,
and love will muster from such healthy souls.
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 2:06 AM UTC
she is a kaleidoscope. an ephemeral array
of dazzling multicolor. an LSD trip,
a hint of DMT, a tableau of ecstasy.
Thoreau once said, "all good things
are wild and free." i penned those lines
in the leather-bound journal i gave her
alongside a host of lineated iterations of empathy—
the first of many sloppy attempts at poetry,
earnest ideas penned to arouse
and amuse my muse.
a hopeless romantic, through and through,
but wise enough to recognize the folly
of storming a castle barricaded by a dragon.
she's going to have to save herself. after all,
she has always been the heroine in her own story
and ****** in mine. so i'll bide my time,
organize and strategize. i'll build bridges
faster than the dragon can burn them.
i will raise an army and wait patiently
at the gates, soulful if not entirely sober.
after all, she is as mesmerizing as fine wine—
and just as intoxicating.
when she chooses to kick down the door
and tear down the walls, i will yield
no ground when the barricades fall.
i've long since abandoned the sword for the pen
and bear only a shield to protect
and secure the health and safety
of the one who stole the stars from the skies
and adorns her eyes with the irises of nebulae.
'till then, i opine.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
hand-me-down lessons lifted
from leather-bound tomes
in iterations of half-hearted exultation
but i found definition in negation
i am the antichrist
for false hope mingles with
crippling self-doubt and
cerebral self-mutilation leads
inexorably to intellectual suicide
i won't follow the death drive
rejecting fantasies of faith
in order to
overcome the world
my struggle is undertaken
alone
i will not sacrifice
reason science art philosophy
for a paternal phantasmagoria
or pastoral paradise
black sheep weren't born to follow
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 12:41 AM UTC