"kinetically" poems
Like a sinful seduction, I slip off the edge of sleep,
my eyes are drawn to the darkest shadows of my room... kinetically searching...
I seem to penetrate them, my mind breathes life into them,
they begin to stir and morph into the preludes to my peculiar dreams,
bizarre at first until inevitably familiar,
as if I had lived them indefinite times in the past... and infinite times in the future... remembering... becoming... unfiltered and unaffected...
my subconscious is my truth, awakened by my dreams.
I long to remain lost in this ethereal bliss.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 8:51 AM UTC
He kinetically arrived
with 1973.
Night is the longest day,
here come the warm jets,
served on a cold plate.
Play it back at half-speed
and you've got auditory wallpaper,
it must be as ignorable
as it is interesting.
His own world spins within a device:
cacophony of sound
mixed in a blender
and xeroxed;
a little snake guitar,
a little Leslie piano
— music to resign you
to the possibility of death.
Then came 1983
and beyond just him.
Tamper tantrum hotline,
amplifiers on the balcony,
secretly taping Edge
and Adam Clayton
on a 4th of July.
The numbered streets
and desert rain
add soul to this heartland,
it's the gospel truth
he wiped the deck clean.
(sort of and maybe).
His device spins within its own world:
manageable hums,
danceable drones,
welded into night;
daytime variations
held together
no better (and no worse)
than a cloud.
Then there's sfumato:
music without lines or borders,
in the manner of smoke
— theatrical fog
— a different kind of blue.
Densely layered,
so impossible to track,
this being lost in
the magnetic hush
of airports and
other strange kiosks,
it all falls into a creative lull.
Guess it's time for
Oblique Strategies...
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 1:43 PM UTC
The purpose of poetry may be to create from immaterial
To deceive
To be unbearably honest and
undeniably cruel
To know
To understand
To attempt understanding and
maybe even empathy.
The purpose of poetry may be the art itself of
harnessing energy and chaotic self influemce.
The purpose of poetry may be to externalize insanity
or find/create the soul.
The purpose of poetry may be to realize the power
of our own subconscious
To find the potential energy in our words and use it
kinetically across our tongues.
The purpose of poetry may be to find god and to finally
find out what this was all about in the first place.
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 11:00 PM UTC
As I turn to see a dark silhouette, I realize it is you.
Your sultry form is illuminated by the moonlight glowing
through the window shrouded by tightly drawn curtains.
I become instantly aroused. Your silken gown clings
to your shapely body, like hot liquid gold dripping
into puddles beneath your bare feet.I approach, slowly,
step by step. Anticipation is heightened. I reach out and
take the thin straps of your gown with a single finger.
First the left, then the right, I hold the straps outward,
with eyes fixed, staring deep into one an others souls,
I let go. Your crimson clothing falls to the floor.
You are covered only by your long beautiful hair cascading
over the curves of your naked body. I take your bare
slender shoulders with both hands. You feel my strength,
but you are not afraid. You feel powerless as a warm
sense of comfort fills the very essence of your being.
With eyes still fixed, we move even closer, so close
I can feel your breath on my mouth. Your tongue
sweeps across my lip and then as sudden as a star
falls from the sky, our lips meet with the power and
the passion of the Genesis of Earth. My hands have
moved to the small of your back pressing our bodies
firmly together. I kiss the side of your neck, you gasp!
As you chase after your breath, I take the lobe of your
ear between my teeth and bite very gently, your
body trembles. I pick you up and carry you across
the room. You seem to be floating, I lay you down
on the bed, a peaceful smile envelopes your face,
as you would see on a child when they feel raindrops
for the first time. My clothes have mysteriously
disappeared. I lay down next to you, then in symphony
we explore each other's bodies completely.We make love
over and over again. The pleasure is overwhelming.
You scream in ecstasy, your fingernails pierce the skin
on my back as you grip and grasp, twist and writhe
and squeeze me tighter and tighter. You scream again,
and again. You have never felt like this before.
Our bodies kinetically charged to the power of a
freight train speeding out of control. We have become
moist to the point of drenched with our hot sweet sweat.
We collapse completely in each other's arms with
exhaustion in total surrender. We awaken at first light,
still in lucid embrace,and say "good morning, I love you."
It is at this very instance we both understand our lives have
meaning and enlightenment. We are under the power of love.
It is destiny.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
Each word is swirling as do fingers following lines on conch shells.
To the base? Or to the tip?
Either winds hypnotically in a march.
This march causes chemical reactions.
Vibrations onto vibrations onto signals onto receptions.
Hormones cause smiles and smiles cause divinity.
Letters are inhaled piece by piece.
Each bead on this string slips down onto the tongues of inquirers and splashes like water drops-
That is me. My tongue moistened by licks of fascination.
Yes, I'm the one in the corner with my hand perched kinetically around my ballpoint. The index finger pre-moistened.
It aches for the page flip it deserves.
I'm the one wishing for pages to be filled, and each breath draws inspiration from all corners.
I reach for each word at full stretch.
The ones meant to be caught will give in, and the inspiration will bloom.
The ones not yet ripe will cling to their buds as do infant marsupials to cautious mothers.
Someday they will come to me with open hearts. I will find them when Time finds it necessary.
But this will only occur if the pen wills it so,
If the divinity follows the smile,
If the hormones initiate the happiness,
If the signals are administered by the brain,
If the brain understands the vibrations,
If the words create the disturbance that forces the writer to write.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
With eyes scratched by blood, looked into dark
The little child that walked alone in woods,
Her ears hurt much as she heard the dogs bark;
She saw her mother silhouetted in interludes,
Every direct look she took brought her death,
To escape the darkness she closed her eyes,
Walked along and cried out with every breath,
Kinetically clefts of wood and sounds of flies
Led her way, but she knew not where it led,
Intermingled voices of her mother and her father
With authoritative tones from which she fled,
Now sounded sweeter but she still moved further.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
Breathtaking Night
Beyond one’s limit of a well -educated mind
Reality can play upon layers of air to find
Etched on an enigmatic eternal orb that glows
As people gaze to this breathtaking talent of shows
Tranquil as in the barb of night embellished by stars
Hazily orbiting round and round the planet Mars
Trails of all the triumphant galaxies and constellations rules
Astonishing thoughts ascend upon moralistic tools
Kinetically seen upon my eyes, though they’re standing still
I am inspired by the celestial constellations of forces thrill
Not upon one single imagination can match this sight
Grand as it seems these breathtaking views are pure delight.
Written sometime in the year 2016
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC