"juxtapositions" poems
i really like contrast, and the way the universe juxtapositions things in my life. yin and yang.
like ******* in a church parking lot.
or getting blackout drunk in my bedroom while an a.a. meeting takes place in my living room.
like being a gay atheist who drives to work at a southern baptist college on sundays after church.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 9:40 PM UTC
Baby soft scruff
Eyes, pacific and sultry
Sly yet honest
Childlike and sensual
Witty and innocent
Bring forth the animal
The infectious mischief
The ***** rhythms in darkened rooms
The stolen moments in Lower West Side alleyways
Long, piercing looks over a bottle of Dal Forno Amarone
Savage concupiscence
Your eyes suggesting the next move
Bodies entwined in the back of a cab
At the bridge and we walk across
And I indulge in your juxtapositions
All the way to Brooklyn
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 4:39 PM UTC
On really good days
I'll leave a crisp five
In the back pocket
Of my ratty blue jeans.
That way when my future self
Feels as fragile as spun sugar
But tastes like burned bitterness
And needs to shake herself awake
Drag herself from chore to chore,
Convince herself that collapsing isn’t a cure,
[Though doesn’t the cold tiled floor feel refreshing?]
She’ll only have clothed in comfort:
Her baggy gray sweatshirt,
Consuming her body whole,
Making her shapeless,
So maybe she can shape shift,
Into a bird or a bat or a pterodactyl,
And make the most of her new wingspan,
Flying further from her fractured reality,
Into a fabulously far-fetched fantasy.
Her ratty blue jeans haphazardly thrown on,
So worn that there are holes in the knees,
Frayed hemline attesting to the tired trampling,
But when she tries to shove a ***** tissue,
Into the back pocket hoping it’s mere placement,
Is enough to leave the memory behind her,
She’ll stumble upon a long forgotten monetary love note.
Yes, you do love yourself,
Yes, I know it’s rough now,
In fact, I guessed it way back when,
But life is just a series of juxtapositions,
And maybe you’re in a hole dug so deep,
That you’ve burrowed out into China,
And now look, really look,
You’ve got a world of exploring to do!
But if you’re not yet strong enough to
Climb the Great Wall,
Don’t you worry,
Building endurance takes some time,
But until then,
Here’s a crisp five,
Go buy a Kit-Kat,
A can of Sprite,
And a cheap horror flick,
And never forget,
I always love you.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
revolutions are coming
for the bored children,
of course, just sit tight.
soon the days will no longer
coalesce together like caterpillar chrysalis
clinging onto branches;
wherever situations harmonise
we’ll make gentle gestures, moving
to and fro until we declare
“this is the medieval economy,
we belong with the hordes of ants.”
But then again
sometimes I find myself in the dark
in schoolyards at night
on the lawn grass gazing up
at towers of concrete rain
I feel the apprehension falling
from the balconies,
and I swallow
the anxious murmurings
of productivity, diligence and attention,
digest their nutrients
and spit them on cocoons
in metamorphosis.
Though, I hope the spit does not spoil the butterfly.
I mean, I would not be surprised
if I caught a tummy bug
and it killed the whole world.
still,
rhetorical coincidences ceaselessly
resort into syllogisms,
essays babble incoherent thoughts,
cranes construct rows of identical houses,
times moves forward and backward
to save light, it consumes time
in my mind. oh revolving
prisms,
there will come a tiny time,
emerging, bit by bit, in unison;
there will be gentler things
to caress the subtle
skins of existence,
one by one, all at once,
momentarily again and again.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
Rarely does it rain while the sun shines
the light cascading upon each delicate drop
The temptation to be out there and to feel the cosy embrace of the rays, yet simultaneously
The desire to hide away from the icy splashes in hopes to stay dry
Sep 19, 2022
Sep 19, 2022 at 4:51 PM UTC
To live well and to die well is the same task.
Epicurus
the song of the old rusty swing
like a frozen pane
(somewhere in a passing memory)
not knowing if there can be
such thing as genuine trust,
you wait for transparent nights
amid angst,
the turmoil of words, rushing gestures,
tired patterns
suffocating all
clairvoyance
you wake up from the lethargy of dreams
to the cruelty of life devoid
of connection
a door got jammed
your parents and their distant lives
-their past is your future-
carrying their never ending childhood
like a message in a bottle
the contraction of days bears you the same
the taste of death is just a habit now
no safeguard
you whisper your dreams to the ragged baby doll -
“Bebe” is here for you
You’re the pain taster
forcing dangerous juxtapositions
or the silent screaming melodies
abundant in misattunement
while mother flashes her cracked smile
on empty days
it might have been better to swallow
her thoughts
while father has a croaked ambition
never to rest
translating his will of power
the promise of tomorrow
left you unscathed
slipping out of time
needs practice,
a neat forehead,
to bear in mind that
light holds on to uncertainty
every time you fall
last mile home is the hardest
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
All I’d ever known were full stops
I’ve dangled
By commas
All my life
Strife filled juxtapositions
Disappointed allusions
Had punctuated my compositions
From the start
But my heart
Is rewritten
You erase my punctuation
Drawing instead, devotion
In permanent ink
I am a new page
No longer caged
By doubt
I’ve thrown mistrust out
My window
All I am is a pathetic fallacy
A hurricane
Of imperfections
Forgive me
I am overcoming insecurity
Burying uncertainty
And rising above
Fear
You’ve rewritten me
Clearly
Your love outweighed
Cowardice.
I am no longer afraid
For I always knew
There is nothing on earth worth loosing you.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 12:34 PM UTC
Discarded loincloths adorn the table.
No one pays attention to the spilled milk,
catching the fever, we turn the other cheek
our hastiness turn upbeat over prevalence
it is hard; juxtapositions lie at your fingertips.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 7:46 PM UTC
My brain atrophies
And still I wait
As if someone will
Come carriage me off
The curvature of the planet
And bestow upon me gifts
I have no title to.
I walk between the aisles
Quietly admiring the mass of produce
Bared fruits eagerly poised
Waiting to drive home in the back seat
To be manipulated and munched
And hastily shoved into lunchboxes
While the coffee smugly percolates
But the engrossed bins prove
Too bountiful to harvest—
My appetite no longer yearns
For the gifts at its feet.
I swear not only did the price go up
But the loaf got smaller
That’s all dreams turn out to be
An amalgam of juxtapositions
So we stand on both sides of the river
While trying to swim against the current
And we know
It’s much too late to still be awake
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 8:51 PM UTC
You darken light
so shine bright
oxymoron's juxtapositions finding oneself in pondering situations
humor in each step , fairy lights guide the path less traveled
feeling the peace pieces fit together
jigsaws of unabridged meaning
simply seething with the intimate feeling of moonlight
hopping from idea to idea to thought to thought
love's boundaries are naught and love's hugs are many
loves kisses flow plentiful
indigo rivers on far off archipelagos snake into brown rivers flows mixing merging
the same happens in the soul
culminations and starters
Pudding just a little while after
A lot around , a lot within , a lot in addition to the whimsical nature of life's flight of fancy
floating feather drops.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
the sound of a car crash, the sound of your ex lovers heart breaking,
knowing it wasn't meant to be
this way, i called you and every clock stopped
i don't know how long it's
been since the last time i believed
you, last week i wanted to
night creeps up on you like the ghosts hanging in your closet, you didn't think you'd grow up to be this,
you didn't want to
and i swore in the seventh grade
never would i follow in my fathers footsteps, here i am, saturday morning
slugging wine from the bottle
a pandemonium of sadness, these corrupting juxtapositions are the only thing i speak with lately
maybe "we" were an overture for what we'd grow into, you know
the nights you text me asking why the hell i won't get out of your dreams, are the nights after you haunted mine
this,
****** penumbra, i see it too often
it shows up in the dreams where i find you too
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC
You are refreshing
like the breeze on a hot day.
It is not in that you make me forget
the rough environment
and offer a moment of calm.
And not in the motion
that relieves the senses
through gust.
But rather, cleansing
in that you remind me of
juxtapositions in the world:
the arid and cool;
the stale and fleeting.
Just like the wind, you are brevity
that clearly shows
why contrasts highlight
and you are the
pleasant other underscored.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Like a mute spectacle I stand, sighing,
sadly staring at the silent caged birds
that are now walking instead of flying;
i often worry that I'll lose my words.
Beautifully adorned I sit, thinking,
lamenting gorgeous juxtapositions,
ornate phrases, and new wonders—blinking,
i admire my strict living conditions.
Exhausted, so now down I lie, sobbing,
wondering to myself about this cage
that impedes my spirit and is robbing
me of my ability to feel rage.
I open my mouth to formulate sound,
hoping for an idea I haven't found.
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
exhaust of night's guttural snarl
sleep, with its fixated eyes
break the silence's dagguerotype.
edges of the moon fringe
until its fingers sort out
plenitudes of configuration:
ignition upon contact,
consummation upon acquiescence,
pilgrimages within unmoving juxtapositions;
suspended on intimation,
void's hands swirl in depth
lithe like a leaf, falling intimately on
the ground: my body's collapse
to surrendering machination.
it begins swollen to the full
and ends, aching,
yet unfazed by the untenable quicksilver
of mind's pompous meander to a field
where it so subtly blows,
the wind in all spaces.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
Your favourite colour was the shade
On the city when the sun set.
Your eyes were as deep as the ocean,
Yet so different from simply blue.
You said you hated the rain
And loved the heat.
In love with the moment,
But never the person.
You always had
A great passion for drawing lines
Between two states.
But how could you even tell
Fire from love,
And pain from rain,
When in the end
they were all just the same?
-Eunice Adewole
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 2:08 AM UTC
and then i stepped to the side
afterwards to the front
as the monitor shone
lights streaking in
omissions
of fingers
and
juxtapositions
imagining lilies
in the hands of someone
who's gone
leaving twenty years
in a wave
that has swept
well-kept lawns
and into the night
i made peace
with the owl that yawns
together we laughed
knowing we are still
prisoners of
that single step
frozen in flight
and done.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC
. dalet, ד
vav, ו
latter "sigma" kaf, ך
nun that's
siamese with vav, ן
pe, ף
resh, ר,
and qof, ק:
jokes for P.
and these are permutations,
i can only call these letters
a concentration on the end product,
the shape of a skeleton of a number,
the bowing angel, 7.
pe? unlike qof,
it curls inward onto its spine,
and almost resembles a 9...
again, curves are a source for ambiguity,
a lot of sevens in hebrew,
plenty more sixes in greek though...
sure, in comparison to hebrew,
the culmination of letters resembling
it, give the number rachitis,
but let's face it... that's 5 letters and
only 1 number: the 5:1 ratio will
bend you a bit.
beside the point...
the original chimera consisted of:
a head of a goat,
a body of a lion, and a tail
as a serpent...
keep up! we're supposedly living
in the 21st century... i still don't know why
people comment on this century
(just begun) with just glee and optimism...
pessimistic **** that i am...
anyway... why are the writers of myths
more powerful than philosophers?
yawn... philosopher never bother themselves
with images, the best image they can
conjure and rationally discuss, is a wheel:
oh look, **** rolls!
ah, but there's a second chimera, befitting
our times (and yes, i mean chimera as
a hybrid, like breeding certain types of dogs)...
so what could possibly make up the modern
chimera, given such an implosion of
feminine values?
ah... borrowed, from the animal kingdom,
and the insect kingdom too...
***** is scary as **** makes the original
chimera get bitch-slapped...
we have the head of a mantis
the body of a black widow spider...
and a tail of a lionness...
for the latter part,
aren't lions lazy, given that lionnesses
do the hunting?
******* maaaa-giggy-giggy-gic.
p.s.
obvious to say, juxtapositions of
the trinity of this modern chimera are welcome;
the chimera had to evolve,
in the original you had two mammals
and a lizard...
in the modern version, give the number
of people in urban areas, you barely need
a mammal, but you do,
but you have to move beyond lizard
and enter the insect realm.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
There’s oil pooling on the streets,
and I’m on my way to some dive bar
surrounded by the glittering lights
only success and fame can afford.
Neon signs threatening epileptic seizures
hang like 21st-Century gargoyles
above the heads of my brothers in harm.
There’s girls in neon everything,
halter top, hot pants, fishnet tights.
They’re calling out for a good time,
but they haven’t been seen here in years,
the nights are too long to appreciate
the memories in the short days.
They never give up hope, though,
that’s why they’re so beautifully broken.
There’s a kid on the street covered up
with an old jacket left behind
by another societal failure who died
last winter in a doorway lined in snow.
Next to him, a musician plays a guitar
that plays no old blues notes,
no idea it’s playing by a grave.
I find a quiet little street, no life,
no blinking lights offering salvation
from a life of complete boredom.
I’ll take the boring and the quiet,
I’ll take screaming into the air,
lost syllables and juxtapositions
flung up into the dead air
of a dark and silent LA night.
We don’t deserve to be lonely,
but being alone all the time is fine,
it’s perfectly healthy to keep
your own company but not healthy
to not enjoy the time to yourself.
Extrapolating meanings from last night’s dreams,
finding comfort in fractured scenes,
looking for answers to our selves
in the morning smog of repression.
But I still beat these same paths,
still see the same sorry faces
illuminated by those awful neon signs,
garish intrusions into the neighbourhood,
fake happiness and promised sorrow.
The homeless kid is gone, stabbed for dimes,
but traffic keeps moving, drinkers keep
gambling away their little pay checks,
and the cold dark of these LA nights
keeps holding on to my echoes.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
Numb like pain
A drip of nicotine
Take the sugar through
Pulling the tear that won't escape
Trapped beneath the blurred haze
Running in no clear direction
Dizzy, laughing
Pulling yourself above the tide
Above the laughs, laugh
Tug the string of thoughts
A simple line of juxtapositions
Soaring above the smiles
Dragged between the lips of Time
The scrapes of burnt childhood
A faint remembrance of snow and rain
Sipping the rain through my teeth
But numb like pain
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
2/28/2015
There is a sweetly tinged contrast between
the yellow of a primaverial agrimonia and a dead winter bramble,
the tingle of cola the burn of coffee
wild wide scope of memory, waiting
A wholesome night... For once!
Entirely sweet and just
the juxtapositions seem to interlock at the parts of the line; this line:
"I don't want to go," rawly stated in
a vulnerable trap, always with the sweet sun of confrontation
scheming through the panes.
So perfectly set: like an animal caught in a groundhog cage
"I don't want to go to school" and
"I don't want to go to the marines,"
sweetly tinged contrast of ingrate talk with hopeful interlocking at this:
Both said with an exasperated acrid breath that makes me think of the mirror stare phenomenon.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 2:44 PM UTC
conjure
the pain
conceptualize
the art
let it
light the way
into
the dark
Bruise
the ego
Do it
gently
thoughts
of depth
spoken intently
rough hands
stroke me
gently
Soft-spoken
words
feel so heavy
Caress my mind
a heavenly touch
the dark man
Is no
longer my crutch
Electric mind
State of still
Moving forward
Stumbling downhill
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC