"ity" poems
As horrid as it seems,
society cannot exist without inequality.
© Matthew Harlovic
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
I will have you know that you are in the mine-ority
If you don’t look at my pic and insta-click “like” on me
I thrive in this weblight, you subsist in ambig-you-ity
Mine is the looking glass of Aphrod-I-te
The un-My-ghty look on my aesthetic perfection and despair
I am the reason there is an earth
All was designed to usher in my triumphant birth
You are just hateful ab-you-sers and mis-you-sers
YOU are YOUVENILE YOULINQUENTS!
I am the oh-so-fleeting truth
Present in a world obsessed with youth
I am only worth what others see in me
I embody the my-jority
My onscreen attention antics
Are the me-ssential components
Required to build a thriving Me-ocracy.
~
NM
10/17/14
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Au(Or)al Tune
When (O)ppo(u)rtun(e)ity knocks –
Ah, pour that tune into me
n(O)t
just write or speak
but
/zIg:zAg/
gut--
--teral mut--
--ter yarns
With
Mouth-churn--
--ing-beat-lick--
--ings.
Half-grown seedling ([her]bal:e(X)ssen(10)ces)
into sm(O)ke
adolescent (O)re worn from being p(o)(o)r—
it was nE(X)CESSary for:
battles
birds
beats
b(O)(O)ks
bottles
bucks
b(O)nes
boys
being(bad)
sm(O)ke-rings w(ear)y with surr(end)er
stripped
v(O)wel
for
v(O)wel
thr(OU)gh the yawn: (O)nly
“(O)h.”
(O)h
… foll(O)ws
the
You’re w(or)th-knowing-ONLY-(O)nce
type of l(i)ke.
VERSE/VERSUS: the
You’re-w(or)th-knowing-AT:LEAST-(O)nce
type of l(i)ke
VERSE/VERSUS:
for (u)s
it’s the worst type of verse
when it’s
them:VERSUS:us
(verses)
likewise -- (O)r worse --
it should really be about//
a bad in (u)s: Y(O)U:ME
(O)h after a
kn(O)ck
(O)h after a
t(u)ne:://
(end)-verse
for worse – it’s an
(end)-versus-us
type of verse.
(O)ppo(u)rtun(e)ity
pouring
ringing e(X)cesses
like
ear-worms to
hear words to
heat hearts.
Ah::rest that mouth-verse onto me.
(restful//fluster)
Ah::rest that mouth
(silent//listen)
soulless gall(O)w r(u)ng
lipless v(O)wel sl(u)ng
like
ARTS::between::STARS
then
VOICES RANT ON::into::CONVERSATION
then
PAYMENT RECEIVED::yet::EVERY CENT PAID ME
worst-verse:
Y(O)u//like hanging
your dipTH(O)NGS
on (O)pportun(e)ity’s d(O)(O)r
like
sm(O)ke-rings
like
being(bad)
like
Y(O)U:ME
like
(O)h. n(O).
(end)-verse:
worst-verse:
L(I)ttle.Kn(O)wn.V(O)wel::
n(O)(O)se big for (u)s
ALL.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
the newbie failure complex(ity)
the poems come torrentially,
hurricane, waterfall & tornado are working adjectives
worthy of the task, yet unequal to the unlimited army
of the written dead of unread poems and poets
that occupy the nether of blog, podcast, and poetry sites,
orphan stars in the un-salvaged junkyard galaxy of verbiage
a faceless wight, once alive, now permanently dead,
we shuffle march, chanting each our own newbie poem,
onward soldiers to ignominy and glory so fleeting,
we are forgot before we are remembered
*this is life in poetry,
or better yet,
the worst of it, (sigh)
this is the poetry of lives*
all for nought,
nought for all,
at least we pass our prison time
in the company of fellow strugglers*
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 5:44 PM UTC
It was dark and day
the day I read the words came straight
from [redacted]'s brain placed upon
this coded page
Oh my delightful
bedstand book took the rope and pulled
from the poetry a noose
with which to cull
its zombie
body
infused
with life
only as
love peace
& pros
per
ity
[redacted],
imbue
me be
fore I
leave
O,
please
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
“Will you please leave the light on?”
Said the young Boy to his Dad.
“I’m kinda scared at night time, but
I hope that you’re not mad ‘cuz when
I am grown up big like you, I won’t be afraid no more
Then you can turn the light off and even shut the door.”
“It’s not the dark that scares me.”
Said the Father to his Son.
“It’s the early hours of morning
When the light has just begun
To creep in through the window,
Push the darkness from the room and
Sweep away the shadows like an
Illuminating broom.”
“So why’s the morning scare you, Dad?”
“I really like the day. I get dressed and Mom makes breakfast,
I get to watch TV and play.
Sometimes we go out shopping and buy groceries and stuff,
She might buy me an ice cream cone – if I’m good enough.”
The Father laughed, sat on the bed, and held his small Son’s hand.
“I wish I could explain it, Son, in a way you’d understand.
At night the dark can hide the truth, I dream and make big plans.
Then morning brings reality to my castles built in sand.
While you and Mom have breakfast, I have to go to work.
I have RE-SPON-SI-BIL’-ITY and duties I can’t shirk.
People there DEPEND-ON-ME. I don’t want to LET-THEM-DOWN.”
Dad suddenly stopped talking when he saw his young Boy frown.
“It sounds like you don’t like your work.”
“You should stay home with Mom and me!
Then you can help make breakfast, and it’ll be us three.
We’ll have a really good time - you won’t be afraid of day.
We’ll help Mom do the dishes, then we’ll go out and play.
Maybe you can pitch some ***** and I can learn to bat?
‘Cuz please don’t tell her, but you know - Mom isn’t good at that.
But she can go out shopping, and we’ll stay home alone,
And, DAD, if you are REALLY good, I’ll make YOU an ice cream cone!”
Dad leaned over, kissed his Son, and said, “I think I might.”
“You said some things that I forgot, and I think you got it right.
I know you and Mom DEPEND-ON-ME, and
I have RE-SPON-SI-BIL’-ITY
To help her make the breakfast and to help you learn to bat,
And maybe I’m afraid of day ‘cuz I’ve been forgetting that.
So tonight I’ll leave my light on
And I’ll leave your light on, too.
And tomorrow morning, when it’s light, I’ll stay home with you!
PwL 1990 to 2015
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
Genau, enow, enough
after the confusion,
we all could make a sound, okeh,
yeah
and we still
knew a shaken head or hand or fist
had meaning beyond words and noise
my words, their noise, barbarians all, but my
loved ones, still,
my nana Even , none could say a meaningful word
Ah, papa Eber, eber he be waving sayin'
Shhhhlome. wow. a word, I was
re connected re tied re ligamented re tendoned
re nerved re *****
re bled
re breathed
inspire me, expire me, think me immaterial, no mattah
nomattatall we stick together, gone bealright
begrudge me not a bit o'livit ity, a st-utter here'n'there
words, in wars, we always win. We are war's
raison d'etre, as they say, its
rational grounds for existence, its
excuse for being.
words are the instigators, provocateurs
no wordless insult results in war,
words are needed,
otherwise
fugitabowdit, how long? Seven times? 490 times?
no,
once, each time, no more.
enoughs the evil enoughs enow.
the weapons of our warfare, how can I say,
watch
we see salient leapers trampling the vintage, seeping
from the heel wound in the beguiler's head.
That's results.
Angels sing and dance, they never tremble in the night,
the hope we never lost,
we just forgot, they remember as if it were the same,
yes, today, forever
they whisper,
go on,
there's more to living than meets the eye.
enough has always had a plural, ask Sam Johnson.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
My big headed people said ity, i trusted, 'hiriz' has never dissapointed themy,
my hatred for non conformity, enormous, i surely hated the conformity truly,
i almost lost it for 'hiriz' sakey, **** it, ill never have wanted to lose this beauty,
i had it weirdly thinking ablazey, loozing?, no, i hadnt and you n they didnt realize fastly,
loosing soo fast about lowly sinking sinly,curse all day i ,ever had thee meeting to lyfy,
wit all the a vitue TRUELY INVESTMENT *** no lievly, forget me darl; once and for ever dony
one more what you waznyt quetly, cool openly, man must lively sweetly
that a day woud spoily truely, madly mey, sooooooo losty i had made a choisy,
refusing my being theiyyyyy, lucky me doing, buty, i love thater that am no longy
your timey was wanting by virtuey, truey. luck **** spyty this shiety oul
endy began truely sure truelly, fukciey, its thats badyy, me lost it shortlley
man must livevy or diiey, truely, gotta ity, man look for bread i wannaity
withought even hiriz it all worked welly, herey, i am. fu**** like ity
dead
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 12:28 PM UTC
Poor tip-ity tap-ity raindrops
Mapping out uncharted fields
Crystal buds take shape and flop
Cruising down my windshield
Mapping out uncharted fields
Drops stumble, slide, glide into place
Cruising down my windshield
Dance to their own song, own pace
Drops stumble, slide, glide into place
While shimmering red turns to green
Dance to their own song, own pace
Brash wipers erase this playful scene
While shimmering red turns to green
Crystal buds take shape and flop
Brash wipers erase this playful scene
Poor tip-ity tap-ity raindrops.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
Observation. the act. a frenetic rat
turning the cheese around.
Twisted little turning fingers.
a scientist looks at two peas
in a pod, and deigns to his ******* child.
His spectacles reflect the world
and classify to a faulty eye.
As fingers manipulate the strings;
connected to divinity
or the prison-within-ity?
A man long flown towards freedom...
hanging high from the telephone line...
Triumphant introspection;
chains inwardly strewn;
a thrall to the matterless dark.
A slave to the unreal Master;
now free to plot against his enemies,
he curses the baker’s wife.
Turning the cheese around
the rat sniffs and inspects
with an eye for ratio,
a life applied ambitiously,
to the Holy cheese and gold trophies.
A ticket to the image of love
But how will he trust her fidelity?
The mail-order bride, she cries.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
Seren-dip-me-pity, (she was self-accepting failure, bad luck wannabe, wears black and sniffles)
the ardent opposite
of Seren-dip-i-ty, (she was an accidental discovery, no recovery needed, awe, found objects, in the
moment)
they are part of the
seven sisters Seren,
wherein lies the rub
Saran-wrap, was third (caught up on herself, clean and air tight, fresh as the day, tough like teflon)
in line, (changed the spelling of the family name - to be sooner alphabetically)
Seren-ate, (she sings she dances, she eats, she sings some more, she waits for applause)
does not speak or gesticulate
unless she performs in song.
Seren-ade, used to sing well (jealous, performance orientated, sometime for love, lately for money)
as well but when the other came
along and did it better she got bitter
and moved in to retail sales (lemonADE, pomADE, calvacADE of arcADEs, you get it, everything became a parADE)
And as for the twins who
are always fighting Seren-ity (lacks calmness, lacks peace, wants a piece of you, uneven temper)
Seren-e (more easy to be obscene, like evening air with a heavy chill, not bright).
The seven sisters of Seren,
who were always preparing
for a fight to the right to
the next beau to knock
on the door, but soon they
all stopped calling,
they were
no longer falling,
over one another,
as the Seren-ities
were now old biddies,
no longer remained a
worth-while dowry, befitting
sitting silently as the seven
sisters of Seren squabbled
soiling the solitude of the soul.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
To you, their rights
are a minor_ity_ priority
You're entitled, spoon fed
Gorged with greed
a coralling disease
Dormancy
a fence that protects you,
but a barbed wire noose
wrapped
round their throats.
You're just another ring
in the chains of oppression
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 5:34 PM UTC
Mirrored thought full breach horizon
Yearning drawing bridging cry
Intimate complete attraction
Now the moment true imply
Cast aside mendacious forethought
Resolute round purpose fly
Epiphanic thought emerging
Doubts foul gibbous banish say ....
Insp’ration resolute within here
Bursting forth bright intellect
Loosing dogs full purpose forward
Encroaching far reach treaded path
Resolute’ness biting grasping
Endless boundless seeming lost
Blazing purposeful grasp grimly
Energise strong inner soul
Capa’bil’ity strong purpose
Clear thought con’quering foul
Abandon dissolute mist darkness
Intersperse directive steer
Levelling where once lay mountains
Onward pushing prancing laugh
Voices raised fair joyous chorus
Ethereal reaching hands entwine
Yearning warmth transcending distance
Over hill and Moorland track
Understand where strength in thought lay
Accomplishment find perfect peace
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 5:15 AM UTC
What is real.
Some of us wonder.
The ones who sit.
In the darkness.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Reality.
Swirls through our heads.
Nearly lost.
What is real.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
For enlightenment about
What.
Is.
Real.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
She tapped my
Shoulder,
I caught carpels.
The “heavy” caught
My breath,
I feared death.
But I’d sip like the
Wind,
I’d open my sails.
And She’d later smile,
A daughter,
And I’d live;
Eternal.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
all
i
have
to
do
is
find
out
who
you
are
would
you
take
some
time
and
reveal
yourself
to
me
i
would
like
to
get
to
know
you
a
little
bit
better
i've
been
looking
for
the
right
op
por
tun
ity.
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 7:53 PM UTC
Here the triple-shadowed unveil their beliefs:
wrangled dusk-bitten demigods walking with-
out shame.
Between the voice I feel and the
touch I see, sweetness loses itself in multiplic-
ity. Here the ****** creators
peddle their big
dreams: failed, half-imagined writers writing
for some fame. Between the ink I taste
and
the blank page I peel, beauty spills onto an
unfinished film-reel. Here the salient idealists
distribute their silent pleas:
faceless, disre-
garded farmers farming hapless grain. Be-
tween
the thoughts I see and the biases I smell,
innocence sits unwanted in a wishing-well.
Here the greatest artists
present their newest
piece: aged, masterful painters painting to
stay stane. Between
the subtlest colors and
the heart-arresting hues, skill picks up a gui-
tar and sings some southern
blues.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
I hope you notice the expression in my song
Unlike that chiff-chaff over there
I try my best to be mellifluous when I sing
Not like him, not like him
Winter's gone and here we are hee hee
Hee hee
What shall we do now
Come on dear, I think you know
What we should be doing now
I'll sing it, I'll sing it!
You're a brave bird and so beautiful
Just right for me, now do a twirl
Do a twirl !
And I'm the only blackbird in the world
You need
I'll sing it, I'll sing it!
You made it through the arduous
Ar-du-ous winter
Just like me, just like me
Brave bird!
I'll sing it, I'll sing it!
My wife's a lovely brown
She's hiding in the hedge
I love to sing do you?
We built a nest we did, we did!
So don't forget to look the other way
If you should venture over here
It would be such a waste of time
To have to do it all again
This place belongs to me!
My wife is here
We're trying for a family
She laid some lovely eggs
Blue they are, she sits on them to keep them warm
But it's a secret, it's a secret
I'll sing it, I'll sing it!
I hope you notice I try to vary my song
Mix up and blend the notes so as not to bore
And if it sounds like I'm trying to tell you something
Ex-plain something
That's because I truly am
I try to sound interesting
When I sing
Not like him
Mell-if-lu-os-ity is my favourite word
I made it up
I'll sing it, I'll sing it!
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Jimmy Beans were strewn in the fields like fire crackers
out from the waxy hulls
sprouted miniscule Bizarrities
(which is a word because it was their names).
The Bizarrities were kind, they enjoyed playing pan flutes
and had a nifty knack of flipping silver coins so that they consistantly landed on heads.
They cried when picked in the Spring-a-ling,
but after a day or two adjusted to life outside the vines
and took up anthropology, or archaeology.
A few opened their own dental practice and picked the little green teeth of fellow Bizarrities.
One day, to-day,
a Honey Tree was swimming along when it came to a Bizarritie.
"Hello kind Bizarritie, won't you play a song for me?"
The green Bizarritie laughed in false glee and said
"My dear sweet Honey Tree, thou art positiv-ity
the reason why I left the ground
and moved to Bizarritie-town."
The Honey Tree, baffled and distraught, contemplated the feelings he thought.
It was on that day, bright and dreary, that the Honey Tree grew ever weary
of the merchants on streets and artists and skeets
and the reasons why
not all assumptions die.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
Skin flaking away to shreds
Breathing a fresh whiff of mockery your way, my way,
Shrouding their compliments and
My pride that turned stale
As they were uttered.
Alphabets
Lisping out of my mouth
Numbers
Trickling out of my mind
(Not a hospitable host,
This existence of mine, they recount.)
Fears & dreams
Going into comatose.
Clock-hands pointing at me,
At the stroke of wakeful realization
Like arrows, yanking out and
Darting past me, in all directions
On a time-bound mission.
Sounds, gone out of tune inside of me
Screeching out of my ears
Favourite colors, smells, sights
Now driving me nauseous
A choking cough that echoes
(Was it not supposed to stifle it, like in movies?)
Of all of these
Crashing at me,
Trying to weave again
That familiar path on that train
That leads to the crossroads of that maze
Of self- destructiveness
That I seemed destined for,
No matter where I'd exit from.
("The exit is only a dead-end!", a fleeting voice quivers)
As I stagger under weightlessness
While familiarity squints into a blur
and
Alienation burrows a happy home
Mute stares from my end lasting three nanoseconds
Angry for they still don't get it
Thrilled, breathing a sigh of relief.
For I get it, lest I should forget it,
This, where I had arrived.
Or
Was I inhaling stagnant complacency
Slipping into the reprieve of familiarity again,
Of accursed i-dent-ity
Wait. Am I getting familiar with myself?
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
A basketball game is like a well conducted, beautifully written symphony. The tip off, a conductor raises his/her hands to motion the beginning of sound. As fingers reach for the orange ball and slam it in a favored direction, music takes flight and volume rises, the crowd roars as a basket is taken by the home team. Rapid pace movement of the squeaking shoes are multiple violin’s strings and bows at work, consistently changing and controlling the tune. The blare of the brass section, the scream of the fans come together in perfect unison, adding texture to the piece. The slam against the backboard, the bass drum sounds off, the dribble of the ball, a high hat’s tap-ity, tap, tap. Music is created in every pass, jump, shot, foul, score, and aspect of this game…from the smallest move to the loudest upset, from the softest flute to the biggest percussion instrument…music is present here and now
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
I found out there was fire lingering beneath this skin,
but it isn't of desire and I don't want to begin
accepting death because a pressure expects breath because of flesh.
I need a cure that isn't time for expiration of the fresh.
For incessant insecure impressions,
For obscure convalescent depression.
For when the most unsure become expected to procure
From those defaulted most demure, the idolatry sense of pure(ity)
[Pure] (it evil answer idol along and so sure)
purity villains were right all along and so sure
maybe for eternity despite killing wrong I'm insecure.
'twas thought was sure
Now wrought hot fur-(y)
(Fur)[y motion] from the prime upon itself,
[Emotion]
To where the very notion of good health,
fuels firey devotion to destroy myself.
I found out there was fire lingering beneath this skin,
but it isn't of desire and I don't want to begin
accepting death because a pressure expects breath because of flesh.
I need a cure that isn't time for expiration of the fresh.
I'm where the very notion of good health,
fuels firey devotion to destroy myself.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
I still have bruises from the last time we saw one another-
But when I go to search my skin and recollect, I can not see them.
Those bruises seeped past my flesh and right into my blood stream,
No longer a faithful blue in my veins; my plasma runs a deep red,
Steadily dripping onto the bones that are supposed to keep me sturdy-
Yet, I continuously find myself stumbling over my own body.
Muscles weighed down by words that effortlessly flowed past your lips
Right into my brain which now runs endlessly pressing migraine
Headaches that I can't turn off
Because no medicine can heal someone who's fully broken
No medicine can fix an immune system that isn't ill
No medicine can fix my own mentality.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC
Is
Is not
these two
no more
Actual
Fact is
There are only
two types if people
those who believe
and the zeroes
ity
On
Off
True True
It's skewed really
False False
By its own nature
Exhibit A
was it G?
everything exists
evident in hard lines
proof
Even backholes
What if
proofing
God
equates
proving
Art
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Let my peace, mine, mine, mine, my peace;
let
my
peace, eh, flow into this vessel
or this space?
Peace past understanding,
what's that cost?
if it's free,
what's it worth,
I got some saved up in de-ift metaphors,
containers of general whatifery,
like what if, I'll let all-if-ity
loose
right now, my peace
see
can you feel me now? Even
If you knew the taste of spoken love,
it would seem odd, if
wordless, mmm, so.
weyekin say hmm.
Feel a peace, say
selah, let go
could you feel love from this far?
Have you ever felt the connection
since the repair? The reconciling?
Whenever began
a while ago,
you should feel alive, if you notice.
Speed of thought (not speedothought, shame)
trick,
kidding eh
this is serious, peace is in the balance
war is threatening,
rumoring
life is about to be taken from me.
Really?
No?
Life is being taken from earth itself?
Really?
How is that possible,
Is there a flaw in the recycling schema?
or is there a missing comma somewhere?
Are we cancer and ambiguous?
I think,
if earth hears,
earth is alive, Gaia speaks and breathes or
god,
is it the universe
who speaks and breathes?
Yahweh, as a being I envision invisible as light,
in whom
I live
and breathe and have my being,
speaks, saying
Fret not. Nada mas.
Word o' god.
Then my dogma goes pretty
spacey,
- I begin to see messages massaging
- unction to function, under my skin…
so true,
if what I done, did you good,
but you never knew I was,
should I care?
This peace here, past understanding, you
can call it yours and call it soul,
keep it in your patience
with some practice,
you may learn to
let it go.
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 5:18 PM UTC