"kafkaesque" poems
Dark bat, would I were curious as thou art-
Like a tea-tray twinkling at night,
And lying with eternal wings apart
Til morning when you end your flight,
And spend the day at your raven-like desk
Chanting incantations old and obscure
With lyrics obscene and Kafkaesque
Quoting first Foucault, then Sassure -
No-yet still puzzling, still remarkable
A black beacon amid shades of grey -
Elusive, and in pursuit quite snark-able.
To you I am drawn as a ****** to ****
I’ll be your muse and you’ll be my death.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
there's a funny twist to this tale,
with feminism tackling ***********
and *** without consent,
both noble feats to tackle...
the male version? becoming
impregnated without consent -
jeez that sounds weird -
well the £110 an hour prostitutes
say they check themselves for
sex-related diseases regularly:
and i believe them. they also require
you to wear a rubber second ********
but it's just odd that you can a man,
and have no say in the matter
of your ****** partner being impregnated,
given that your ******** is about
an inch long, and when pulled back
your ******* head turns purple
because of the constraints, so a ******
isn't really that much of a discomfort...
but still she insists... *** in me, *** in...
white lies and anti-contraceptive pills...
so how about strawberry...
i don't mind, my ***** gagging with the ********
pulled back, but hey, ******* with ********
is so much more pleasurable than without
it... i know, i have the capacity.
and indeed i do like Freud, his theory
of the compound Madonna-Whore "complex"
is true... question is, is it expressed by
a woman, or by man? i'm guessing a woman
since Freud covered men as Wilhelm Oedipus Rex...
and i went straight down the hyphenated middle...
Madonna O Madonna why are you
in need to talk about ***
and the ***** get's them every time,
no talk, i know why i paid for consent,
she knows i paid for consent, even if she's not
aroused she uses skin-cream to oil up
so penetrating her won't hurt... while i'm not
a universal stunner... but i still don't
understand why a girl would think there's
no opposite of **** / *** without consent...
i.e. forcing a fatherhood on you on the sly...
that's the opposite of **** she thinks you're
so perfect because she's in her teens and she just
experienced the diversity of the world
and boom, you're trustworthy about her promise
to be on anti-contraceptive pills (she isn't),
you can use a ****** because your ********
is too tight... and then you get a really bad Kafkaesque
theme for the rest of your life.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
Deconstructing a Kafkaesque
amphitheatre of the absurd,
Easy wallows she in their hypocrisy,
Son of a gun grabbed on
to the gold that fed his infant
self, doesn't dare let go, won't ever,
Dev breaks the bottle he hits,
scrounges, discards the last scrap,
the rat scurries in, devours, heads
back into the smoked corridor,
the auction goes on, so does he
showering petals and pity upon the
middle road more travelled, bumpy,
potholes full of acid and bile,
the stupidity of the tyrannical majority
and an underwater civilisation consumed
by mind-numbing, mildly shocking TV,
undercurrents of power drowned under.
Uppercase Him, uppercase He,
they hoist a red flag, set it afire,
stomp out the flames, wave a black
rag till the ashes turn to naught,
the Dionysian petit bourgeoisie proceed,
spew, ***** spew, repeat.
The voyeuristic rat has front row seats
gaze fixed, piercing centrestage
auction-house by day, amphitheatre by night,
the bids shall resume when
the morning bells toll, till then,
Dev's hungry for more,
the rat enjoys the show.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
theatralic melodys
from the remedy
of first kiss tragedies
self ironic chronics of the super-sonic self-awareness immortality tonic
blasting out jokes
that choke from an overload
of a self-sadistic adolescent glow
there are troubles in teenagetown
out of their mind
cause they are homeward-bound
assimilate a thrill and be a thriller
as you drop a one-liner and become the moment killer
cheerleader utopia and planned backseat scenaries
communicate via inside jokes in binary
prom night is a kafkaesque dilemma
coquettish flirting miniskirts
plus a dangerous liqour goodnight hammer
there are troubles in teenagetown
cause troubles do make a sound
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
self-reflection churns out an image of a clicking cicada of an aggressively ****** young girl, who due to the pressing weight of a blue silk chord around her throat possesses
a shiny dark, green exoskeleton (refracting light and resistant to moisture)
(SO ******* KAFKAESQUE) (!!!)
who sings as she rubs furry legs together and has decided to spill pain whenever possible onto screens and sheets, throwing up wherever she lands, without true cause in a careless disarray, breeding narcissism (let's throw a party)
biting into shattered satin, like a moth feeding off of human wetness and stains while punctuating words with mispronunciation and self-absorbtion
because she is deathly afraid of being boring and a daily routine, how predictable
(the crowd looks on miserably, fanning their faces with paper plates, sweating profusely)
this poem is predictable;
sorry.
I never have tried to **** myself, it would be silly to think that not killing yourself or killing yourself would have an actual influential impact on most of the world, except in rare cases.
Death is looming, I am grinning, I have not yet seen it so I guess I will live forever and subside off the hearts of men (no, not really, I'm kidding).
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Kafka was in town,
in disguise he went around
was terribly pleased!
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
you will never hear
a thumping drum of
a Kafkaesque mea culpa
of the first fist clenched
drumming against the chest...
thum' thum' thump,
boom boom, boom boom,
given that my index finger
on my right hand was dislodged
in order that i might not clench it
into a fist,
given the strong hand it once was,
given that,
i'd still gladly if not
ably punch you dead - indeed should
it take another dislocation i would see it:
a face ably punched dead, nonetheless...
question is, would i take more pleasure
anally defacing it rather than punching it?
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
and why do you think
they shot the serial killer
in the back of the head?
you know, having experienced
a brain haemorrhage aged
21 i'd know... there's nothing
kafkaesque about it...
the slow bleeding out via a hole
in the cranium, you really
are a decapitated cockroach by
this point (living two weeks more
dying from starvation), but in
the serial killer's case also a little
bit fidgety...
oddly enough impairment of the brain
doesn't mean your heart stops
ticking... poor kurt cobain
with that shotgun wound of his...
i mean a stab to the heart is wildly anticipated,
but why would you shoot your brains
out, given that the ***** per se
is not an automaton pump, or a decipherer
of toxins (the liver)?
the brain is a puppeteer of bones.
it's the flow of the haemoglobin
that's kind, kind enough for you to be
conscious and decide your last thoughts
on the matter, auto-suggestive atheism
is what i call it... shoot the thing that's
functioning automatically - your
brain is a paradoxical dual carriage way,
it allows both science and mysticism
to reach the ultimate, reasonable parallel;
basically... don't mess with
the sponge soaking up the porridge;
asked politely, seneca slit his wrists
in a hot bath.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
Every once in a while, especially on holidays, I find myself wandering through my memory museum - rattling doors and fishing through those virtual hallways. That’s where I found ‘Father Lucas,’ last night, back from when I was eight or so, at (private catholic) school.
Each week, before we received that week's ‘catechism lesson,’ (religious education) from the nuns, we’d get to hear what Father Lucas had to say about the Kafkaesque mysteries of the universe. He looked very old, wise and wrinkled, like a skinny Santa Claus.
Outside of those brief lessons he was always shrouded in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Even at our age, we knew cigarettes were bad for you - but what did ‘Father Lucas’ have to fear from death? On him, the surrounding smoke seemed right and fitting, as if he were the human personification of the burning bush.
My father had just died (we were in a car crash). Before that, the biggest drama in my young life was putting one foot in front of the other, and suddenly, I had a lot - lot, lot of questions that I absolutely, positively and under no circumstances what-so-ever wanted to discuss with anyone.
Imagine, if you will, the gravitas that Rod Serling brought to the introduction of each Twilight Zone episode, and you have Father Lucas’ introducing the lesson. I felt an anticipation of answers independent of my individual situation.
Father Lucas provided context and meaning to the unknown, he dabbled in surrealism, spun out paradox and it seemed that he stood on the very edge of that dark room at the end of the maze. He was transmitting at my frequency, and I could have listened forever. Bless the man.
Ultimately, of course, there were no ‘answers’ - but that’s ok - no answers are an answer.
Dec 23, 2023
Dec 23, 2023 at 2:54 PM UTC
I hate my dreams . . .
I once dreamt of rain
Rain that fell,
but didn't touch my shoulders
And it rained during night time
Night time that shone
Darker than dark
And in that dream I was waving
And each time I waved
They knew it was me who's waving
But they never waved back
Never
And the moon, and the stars
They hung like pupils in the sky
And I watched them
As they watched me
But never did I laugh
When they laughed at me
And I was fearful
Because I hid in the shadows
Of closed eyelids
Until slowly, my eyes began to part
Only to realize that in waking up
The darkness was still there
. . . and I hate that even more
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
Follow the colored lines
down the corridors
one by one
they diverge
abrupt right angles
a sharp turn
into acute psychiatry
a long gentle curve
into imagery
we've seen before
we've been here before
this time is different
and the same
old places
and brand new
parallel worlds
perpendicular paths
follow the lines
of this
Kafkaesque
supercollider
hurtling us down the halls
through the partitions
particles collide
and time stands still
which path do we follow
to bring us back
to the beginning
a whole universe
of possibilities
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC
Mundane concerns stifle
the soul that hungers for the infinite
Practicality subverts the mind
as it questions and wrestles with
this existential enigma...
Bound by the curse of productivity
and the insatiable drive for accumulation
Libidinal, perverse thoughts
drive the working man
to this, to that...
he is a puppet pulled by invisible strings:
the corporate, bureaucratic masters
calling the shots
laughing control freaks...
the world is theirs for the taking
and the worker-slave raises his hands
a sense of triumph
as the crumbs fall down
We live in a Kafkaesque era
merrily languishing
in this willful dementia.
Jul 10, 2020
Jul 10, 2020 at 9:36 PM UTC
How does capitalism deeply impact my life?
I want to make music so bad, but I procrastinate with stupid ****
I clean as if people could come over anytime and judge me superficially. I often go out and shop for things I futilely hope will organize me enough to make cleaning faster. I shop for obscure musical instruments and gear to feel like it'll make making music easier.
In capitalism, owning the machinery is more valuable than doing the work. We ingrain that in our soul, more and more. Negative liberty was always valuable, but when you had less you used to find others to help turn that liberty positive.
I have a guitar, bass, and drums, but no band. Self-alienation at this point. All my friends play, but don't want to make it a thing.
Our leaders are just hype men and chaos actors to keep the mystery going. "Capitalism may be cruel, but it's the best system we got."
"Capitalism just means people have the right to go into business for themselves." No the owners are subservient to something greater too. They serve capital, they serve the absolution of all. Your automatic answer is "it wasn't my fault." It was incorporated, depersonalized.
So many dead and broken people. So much waste. Digging up so much petroleum, the plastic's in our veins. "It's no one's fault." If by some astronomical chance a concerned public win a Kafkaesque trial, all that's lost is money. No one goes to jail or suffers, if you own enough stuff.
But there's the pickle. "The things you own start to own you," of course, but what's much worse is the Nothing they serve needs to grow, until there's no humanity left. Becoming voids who only seek more efficient ways to delete.
Aug 13, 2024
Aug 13, 2024 at 11:31 AM UTC
Shadows of a future dancing in the light.
When I look into the darkness of another early night.
How many hours have now met me and passed?
How many days until I finally reach my last?
In a room full of dust I am forgotten waste.
A repulsive disease plaguing my loved ones with distaste.
Little legs can’t take me as far as they might.
I remain in darkness so as not to cause a fright.
Samsa the traveling salesman; a haunting, unfamiliar name.
Samsa the traveling salesman; soon gone before his fame.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 3:46 AM UTC
Of progressing science
Of massive equations
Of theory and numbers
Of facts and hypotheses
Unexplained are those things that really matter!
From the realms of a world
That works purely on sense
With so called knowledge immense
But only in your head!
God is a work of fiction, you say
Call those mortals dumb for a day
For they don't believe in science
Yet you prove atom, to my dismay
While it exists, but not seen
Questions to these answers is what I seek
Seem as strong as I wish, I am still weak
Heaps of papers lie at your desk
Where are the answers when I feel Kafkaesque
What use is it, when two plus two can't be five
While she is dead, and I am alive
Pleasures so corporeal
Have left my abode
Facts no longer real
All that is left is the source code
Of what a yes is and a no
Of regressing mentality
Of submissive disorders
Of beliefs and faiths
Of lies and false assumptions
Unexplained are those things that really matter!
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 5:11 AM UTC
*why is everyone, suddenly sully, namely patient x, readied for psychological testing, when his only mental "disorder", is the society he lives in? why has everyone become suspect? is stalin in office? no... so, why the **** do i feel like i'm under some premonition shadow of a bogus minority report? now, shouldn't i feel obliged by a paranoiac shiver, to merely ask a question? no? fall into rank you say... now i'm going to die less in awe, and more in a nervous anticipation of a kafkaesque trial... some words really deserve a thesaurus... when awe became worry, when worry became paranoia, when paranoia became huh(?), and then huh(?) assured us all that it was: not worth the ******* bother.*
i don't like psychology for one reason,
and one reason alone:
there's too much common sense in it...
every time i hear some psychologist speak
i think of some sort of common
sense adventist...
then again, i also think of these
people as obtuse insomniacs:
for all the common sense they speak,
they also seem to be the ones
most likely to have been the ones
recently woken;
i can't help but find psychologists as
"historians" freshly out of hibernation,
with a sickness known as morality,
a "soul" and a god:
tell that soul bit to asthmatics,
those hyper-ventilating
multiple-reincarnations locked
up in a two 4 one deal of existential debates,
******** gratis...
there's just too much "common sense"
in psychology,
this darwinistic puritanism that's
annoying as high-fuck of a 9th tier worth's
of dante's paradiso:
you still get to see the face of god
(beatrice portinari) -
but then you miss the murk sloth
sleuth of virgil in the inferno...
and why wonder,
why the people have already decided:
hell is more interesting,
god is a bore,
and a woman is at most desired:
when she cannot be attained -
and a man most desirable:
when he cannot be tamed.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC