"latency" poems
Tip Your hat
And curtsy low
The masses so mandate absolute guile
A handshake, a smile, a proper and refined bow!
To adorn thy head and semble wit
And do your best!
Take pride with etiquette
If not informed
Ye won't last a mile
And differentiation between animals distinguishes you,
Resplendent child
Wash your hair and underclothes with soap
Lest ye resemble sow
And goodness dear
Have I forgotten now?
Always remember to smile!
So I'll take your Winter clothes with zest
I'll scramble on point
No unruly mess
Oh, did i forget your coat?
No, I've got it, relax, care for a smoke?
My apologies, please forgive my latency
It must be warm in here for my blood
In fact...
Boiling over kettle within
Prevent me from committing sin
I do wish to vent
Pick up this pen
And release red wells from his dainty, fragile neck
Or...
The underbelly. It's beknownst to me entrails are thick
Now whatever shall I do with this fresh clutter?
I'll act for free, so cordially!
With my chivalrous lines
But can you, my friend, respond in kind?
After all, it's only common courtesy
It's over now, my fantasy
It dissipates with urgency
And this is my confession
Yes
Imbibed in me from every grueling, tedious lesson
An implication of uniformity
The daydreams borne from the perfunctory
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Curtains, veils of virtual vice
So, gaze through the ****** intermix
of positional latency,
nano-notions lost in frantic phantasm,
requisites of an idle, unhealed mind.
Draw the virtual screen curtains open,
bring forth the lustful images to
feed the circuitous appetite, lurking
front-row-presence, at the keys.
Unknown, undertones
of desirability, poses in patient wait,
online implication of fallen ways,
predication of unveiling moments.
As any-time-porn pours its spill
of sickest gratification behind
the curtain tab selective viewing.
It is someone’s child the glides on rails
of drawn conclusions, through windows
where drapes of cyber mindlessness
hang on dank walls of seedy buildings.
The ***** grinder always plays the tune
to which monkeys happily dance,
in a world where Neanderthals hang out,
unperturbed with new technology.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 9:44 AM UTC
The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.
Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?
To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.
With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.
I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.
Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic. Now I use it to influence my movements.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
Stake claim, enslave
Falling behind
A wake so odd
Cosmic, wretched truth
Will all compose
With repetition
Til all devolves
Equally wrong choices, with dire stakes
Options weighed, time again
Derived presets, and presupposition
Derivative motion, placed on this clean slate
And left for a lifetime
Of horrid substitutions
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:37 AM UTC
Seasoned Love's silent discourse,
Dusk of the long distance,
Beneath the mantle of lament
The peak bloom, gnawing decay,
Obscure
The weight of favor;
Annealing fire, moulded by
Winds of duration
Unfastening the raw surf of sorrow.
Incipient caprice, theft of occlusion
Colored by common defiance,
Vile tremors of privation-
Native enclave,
The province of
Vacant, age-eaten elucidation.
The tangled weave, pathos and ethos
Vested
Interior acquisition,
Furrowed paths of countenance
Evincive and drawn,
Affinity found, inhabiting the palisades
Of Immersion.
A furtive glance harbors
The trained gaze whose
Immanent flame-
Emergent
Serous source,
Imbued piercing latency;
A taste of
The fountainhead.
Unprobed theater of the absolute.
Thin supple pith
Identity sealed in skin
Perambulator of meaning and
Lineaments of cure.
Bearing the image of ubiquity
Perceives in the other,
Immortality.
Sacramental Eros,
Subsumes the
Capacity to treasure.
©2013 W.S. Warner
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
Yes I saw the truth in the hillside freeway
In the grilled cheese sandwich
for sale on Ebay
With tortillas and butter they called me a ******
Because I saw the truth in the eyes of another
Who decided to feed me a line of such rapture
That captured my stature of pragmatic backed banter
Gathered the trappings disbanded, I could map out the standard
Wanting the pattern, the vibrancy frequented
Masking the latency, the reader obsequious
Addressing the nuance, ignoring complacency
Significance amplified, convinced of this elevated
Power to axiom, entropy celebrated
Wax to a fault with a message converted
While the layers of encryption serve to hold this position
A raw disposition, hoping to see beyond this decision
I can't see beyond the scope of the eye with conviction.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 5:35 AM UTC
You dreamed it once
The slow bend in the road
Past which the world delves
Into the realm of the unreal
Unrealised futures selves
That are as material as
Anything will ever be
In this stretch of land
Between here and infinity
Where a million bonded yous
Could be living in flawed
Synchrony, a dissonance of
Possible lives you will never see
Even now at the precipice
Of all that waits to come
The time it takes for a hum
To bloom into the vibration
Of a body growing wings
Is that step that lays down
The brick for the next
Two feet never together
On the same square inch of ground
There lies the sound of cracking shells
A chrysalis to which you are bound
By birth, where inside you lay the
Stones of the inverted pyramid
With each clean bone leading
Cleanly to the edge, the rising temple
Held up by the apex of the roof
Long before belief has penetrated
The invisible heart of the root
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 5:54 AM UTC
An excerpt from An excerpt from
a poem by T.S. Eliot. a poem by the False Poets
Between the idea no permanence in juxtaposition
And the reality where Falls the Shadow, the shadow
Between the motion. a divisive notion caught between
And the act composition & action, the response is
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the conception grayed outline indistinct, the cognitive sap
And the creation leaks, contradictions irritating birth sac,
Between the emotion whereupon Falls the Shadow emerges
And the response the response conclusive, occlusive, collusive
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the desire juxtaposition insertion, need to achieve
And the spasm *the blurted ****** of spurted letters born*
Between the potency. in the potent white seeds of black words
And the existence coming into existence as a riptorn issue,
Between the essence essences of scents blood+logic foretelling
And the descent birth & death, descent & the ascent, both,
Falls the Shadow Falls the Shadow
Between the desire the desire desired, completed,
And the spasm the latency uncovered,
Between the potency the potent toxins of spit and tears
And the existence the birth fluid of of existence
Between the essence the formulation of the human essence
And the descent from blood dust to blood dust is where
Falls the Shadow. Falls All the Shadows
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
Why in the big government today,
are there so many politics,
and not enough policy.
Why are we like the mice to their cat,
as we run and scrounge,
and they grow fat.
Why do we sit and let them decide,
when incompetency and latency,
strip us of our pride.
As we sit and choose who is best,
we forget that these men must pass a test,
it is not about who has better hair,
or whether they say their daily prayer.
The test should be one of valor and bravery,
someone who can fight for our safety,
one who is even-keel and not unsavory,
and most importantly
someone who saves us from slavery.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
I dreamt of Freud yesterday
With his imposing air of superiority
Suffocating my need
To have a little autonomy
Libido and Thanatos
Runs past my mind in fast succession
Oedipus and Electra
Pauses the screen in motion
I dreamt of Jung today
Diving into the collective unconscious
Floating on the symbols
That is universally serendipitous
Archetypes and motifs
Flatter the culture of humanity
Anima and the persona
Sheds self unto the lights in harmony
I’ll dream of the future tomorrow
When everything’s all said and gone
The old will always be with the new
As written of past in stone
Though conflicts harbour trouble
And dreams reproduce it’s latency
Anxiousness is part of life’s bundle
So conquer it we must, positively
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 5:39 PM UTC
Excuse me while I insert
This logical probe through the frontal lobe
Of my emotional epicenter
This is a latency test....
Ratings of my muse
Are falling like waistlines at the mall
From the best of rhymes
Tacitly turned on wheels of subtlety,
To the jest of all time,
A lyrical mockumentary,
Starring Miss Pellings
And her first cousin Cliche
Excuse me while I excise
The phobias, limits and lies
Polluting my paradigm of choice,
Diluting the core of my creativity,
Muting the "i" in my voice
This latency test is now complete...
Welcome to my new Literary Bar
Raised beyond the average line;
The stars of our poetic destiny await....
~ P
(#latencytest)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
There is speak of latency
and pregnant pauses,
for epochs.
From Cambrian to Devonian,
and all things antediluvian.
The stone, the bronze, the golden age.
and the age of wood and wool,
Of wool,
and wood.
Of mahogany,
and mohair.
An age of comfort and kindness,
of nanas wasting idly in rocking chairs,
Knitting sweaters big as continents,
for the sons and daughters,
Of their sons and daughters.
with the loom and swoop and stitch.
While each toc and tic,
Turns grandma to dust
and to death
Then to be latent again,
in a universe of dust.
A star, with a secret harbor,
of virtue.
A constellation, lassoed,
in her honor.
Blessing all with patience
Shining benevolent,
and intentionless,
For all to see.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
taking government loans, parental guidelines
and flashy dress-skirts made this life unfact
and unfiction. Lost in the disabled returns on
tax dividends, the world kept calling your name.
“Rise up and be born with me, brother” Pablo
Neruda inclined-- *“Give me your hand from the deep
Zone seeded by your sorrow.”* it all it all it all ached,
an abyss of patience with nothing-- a droplet of sidelined
coffee given sentience with ingestion-- all the banal all
the mundane all the flowing rock-face moments so
presented by society-- in my heart of hearts, in my mind
of minds, in my eye of eyes, in my neck of necks, I found pain....
the ache of achey betrayal and the ache of achey loss. In this
pain we find repreive from Pollyanna-- reprieve from the false
Gods of Evil, the Devil Within your Ex-Girlfriend-- the reason
she let his ******** inside. Through all the latency-- through
starving streetless sleepless evenings-turned-to-nights I could
see death within the sliver of a flashlight beam.. telling me to
take the life or leave the life but never in-between-- telling me
the pain was part and parcel to the ecstasy of faith and resurrection--
screaming “FLATLINED IF YOU WANT, FASTLINED IN YOU
WANT, SIDELINED IF YOU WANT, STREETLIGHT IF YOU
WANT” and throughout this evil and this darkness and this nothing
-but-a-flashlight-beam, I hear Neruda--
“Rise up and be born with me, brother.”
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Silence upon other silence grows;
Taller than any skyward cathedral,
Wider than divisions, between two brothers.
The only sincere silence is natural,
Or found by a flickering candle’s flame,
And the latency, of a sleeping child.
After a death, some silence may roar
Down zigzagging corridors, of dazed;
Haunting midnight's vertiginous dreams.
Numbness opens vast reservoirs of quiet
And in the resultant- preternaturally stilled-
Silence sometimes finds its earthly voice.
I now present to you, Silence itself-
Bereft of courtesies, or dignified flourishes;
Bare as a babe at death- or birth.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 2:12 PM UTC
Five hundred moons the bud
on slender, lithe, soft-skinned stalk
belies its strength in quiet latency
bundled in its own promise
Nurtured in ancestral love's soil
bending, bowing, under weight of rain
shedding seasons in quiet deferrence
unaware, its own verdure burgeons
Soft new petals on florets of truth
weep in its turbulent spring
gentle drops of elven victuals
mustering, nourishing itself
Twin blossoms of vibrant azure ice
blazing brilliance, fulfillment
I am a humble bee in grateful witness
Yes, your eyes
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
Commence thy latency...do not guard
thy straits.
Of old and older days, slept lightning
layeth upon thee.
Unrehearsed homage, to what's unkempt
of the preternatural.
Commence thy latency...do not guard
thy straits.
The toppled onyx monument of sky
layeth above thee...uninscribed save for
flow of clouds.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
Bed ridden,
Cold,
And Barely breathing.
I await you to drift in,
Like turning leaves in autmun wind.
Chasing your shadow through the corners of my latency
Make me believe in fairies.
Dance me in violet haze
twirl me with nymphs of woods everlasting
let me prance my weaknesses down
Through apath of serenities among orange speckled wild lilies
Take me where I can breathe
Besides these letters of make believe pages.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
Holed up in a closet with half a pint or so
Too slowly disheartening for the time it takes
And far too enigmatic for the plans I've yet to make
Yet I move with every atom drawn emancipated
Yet the context of neurons
And bitter sweet memory all a fabrication
Another thin layer of nostalgia to force feed the sleeping beast
And even as I disregard, it comes up through the latency so brazen
Another helpless mess of chemicals to feast upon
Boring
A **** shame as well
Charismatic yet moments away from being half adjusted
Using every empty vow of justice to reciprocate
He must've mustered every ounce of faith based forgery
And the internal jury applauds
All is for naught, but drowning in waste deep
Self pity is for suckers
I can drown in less than half an inch
Selfishness is only realized once
Pride stops you from making friends
Maybe the fear hits nearer to home
Reopen its wounds like the case that lay dormant but provable
Felonious though it may be once you disregard empathy
You know he did
And yet it bleeds
Still it moves
Cognition taken for granted, but by who?
Sure, the long since departed had so much to lose
But If with every passing breath they would've ****** down oxygen
With the same callousness he possessed
When cutting off their heads
Doesn't the burden fall on you as well...
Sending a man to hell is no easy task
Bask in the grace you made for yourself
Bending the page with ink that you've layerd
With blood and homage to past ruling lieges
That murdered their wives for no god **** reason
Tragedy only strikes in pairs
Taking the same heads off twice
One visible, the other not so much
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 4:36 AM UTC
Acuity's sweetheart, without a peep what whole
to picture, reflect you.
Black hole gone white...you consume all put to
you.
Unwavering stare ad nauseam--great gatherer
of last nerves.
Your only sentiment, an unnerving one.
As per second guess, images donned their
reality within your confines...their dead end of
your wide open.
Grey skies of luminous latency, frozen lakes,
serrated knives, sentient fog--smack of you.
Timeless conversation piece on reserve for what
thing may look into you.
How can something so crystal clear, be so cut off?
Your desensitization was fashioned darkly--that
pained slip...that recoil of what you reflect.
More final than the wall hang you, as to eclipse.
You belong shut in a dark, musty closet, or the
cobweb corner of an attic.
Clearly...you do not merit the light of day...it's fire
to brush...O Great Teacher!
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
“Blight into cold blue and obsidian water sky.
I await to graciously glance at sunset and smile,
I must renew my bones in dynasty of deity,
I have been feeling an awakening sensation,
I must still clear all my earthly levies,
As I sense awakening of a simmering rage,
The day that since has died a desperate light,
That light that must get stronger by the day,
Today is dead latency in the desolate land,
My heart welcomes you once again my love,
My season my woman my deity my immensity,
Every road leads to the door step of my heart,
For without thee I will roam with a hungry heart,
It is blunt to pause to make an end majestic creature,
Nefarious it was for suns to store and cache my will,
Skies black water befuddles me and constrains me,
Moving heaven and earth that which we were,
Made all the stars weak by time and fate,
Every ode will disperse and die as soon this will,
Ode to Blackwater”
By Andrew Guzaldo 09/20/2018 ©
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
My bed is double functional
I use it to make love on
And it is where my mind becomes extracted from my body and goes to planes of potent virtuosity
Where the sheer sound of self-reflection is an incredible pleasure
The body, a conveyor of material wants and superfluous desires is left behind in puzzled abandonment
But the mind does not lament
It blasts out of the squaller of the western world and all of its heavy reliance on demystified theatrics and the attempts of restoring a cleavered generation gap
The mind’s finesse and savage grace carry it to a hypnotic river of awareness and comprehension
The river bed is self-continued
The latency stage is over, all indications point forward to end the played out injustice of self-deprivation , run with fluidity and quit the life of a spectator
Then, pool into the communal crown
Where we are all holy royal
Where we are all enrolled enthusiasts of freedom from one’s own shackles of doubt and shame
The corrupt coercion is out of favor and now we've assembled without the fear of involvement
For we've been in play since we crawled out of the womb
But it is now that we have decided to speak
And this drastic turnover is first and foremost and idea, no more no less
Not a law
Not a war
Not a religion
Not and organization or a political party
It is an idea to let the mind wander and find independence
Independence from the body, the world and all the smoke and mirrors that pollute it daily
Then grab the vibrations of positivity in terms of thought and action then touch with an extension of personality
So go, live in your uptight, delightful, tangible world and dispel this theory
I’ll stay here sitting astride this moot point
-Tommy Johnson
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
The only thing that can surpass the grandness of my intellect, is my unrelenting naivety
The only wisdom I lack, is that of experience
I assume all the things that I neglect, in my late latency
But, lately I attest, I’m quit definitely delerious
I want to build grand monuments to loved ones, but I’ve never been an engineer
Pass down grand teachings to my sons
Yet I’ve never been a father, in any year
I wish to love a woman, like no woman has ever been loved before
To tell her irrelevant stories, and only store memories in the drawer.
To take her to places she hasn’t heard of before or even seen.
Create! The things that she can adore and make the chaos serene
I am no fool, I know what I want.
I desire commitment, I long for Freedom and independence
I decided her love for me; I’ll proudly flaunt
But, internally keep it secret, to nurture my own dependence
One day, she noticed that her love for me was gone
And all the little things she loved about me, all of the quirks, and unintentional foolery
Had turned into insufferable character traits, and puzzling conversations
She no longer loved me, and I love her still.
But, I could not love her, the way she wanted to be loved and cared for
And eventually she could not love me as well
She needed to be loved, but only from a distant shore
Her love, in kind, I could not compel
I need to say a million things to you, tell you how I feel, show you how I hurt, and imply what I desire.
I wish to scream, loudly and often, let the air wash away the bitterness from my lips, and try to rekindle the fire.
But, instead. I stay silent, and act benign
And when asked… I say : “I’m doing fine”
Sep 2, 2023
Sep 2, 2023 at 2:56 PM UTC
I'm a daredevil with the wordplay
I'm the father nature of words
I cause metaphorical earthquakes
I create verbal distortions
real-time gravitational pulls
My words create wormholes
for you fools
I'm never one to get caught up
With those three-lined time wasters
Small words are for felines, not dog chasers
Now watch me enter your ear like q-tips
Whether you recite this mentally or with two lips
Watch my words blossom then spring like tulips
My tools are to equip, I do this
For the sake of being an artist
We are now in the future
You can be a man that is heartless
I swear his organic heart was replaced with turbines
YouTube it, google it!
We are now in those times
Enough about those lives
Let's embrace my current state of mind
This current age, only a fragment in the stain of time
Minimum wage has me working over time
Maximum rage could be the case if I let go of my
Elusive state, I'm in a place where my conscious mind
Has embraced all of my thoughts upon these words of mine
I hoping that these words can turn to wine so that all can drink, then have high spirits
We are all passengers upon our own body's can't you feel it?
lag and latency upon your current actions
tell your brain to move a finger, then see what happens
It's crazy that only 10% of our brain can be accessed
Is this a myth or a fact?
I have yet to fathom
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC
can't let go
I grasp I take hold
And I can't let go
My hands sweat and slip but I grasp harder
Wondering if it would have been smarter
to just not grasp at all
To just surpass it all
Because now the collapse of it all is on me
And things like this don't have a plan b
... so I think
Wondering about the correlation
Connecting the links
the what ifs
Pleading the fifth to all the things I can't explain
Perspiration runs now like rain down my finger tips
Under looking the bliss
Measuring the ignorance
Memories like fingerprints engraved on us two
Enslaved to the emotions and memories of you
I wish that I would not have taken hold of you
Hands stuck as if glued
With vision skewed
And thoughts just as lewd
Wishing our hearts did not have **** encounters
Wishing that thoughts transcribed were not vouchers
Feelings and emotions for you cower in my brain
Perspiration from my hand like rain makes a puddle
As your actions are rebuttaled
I notice the subtle grit in your voice
the off step in your poise
hands overly moist
overlooking the choice to let go
aching to let go
Heart in hand
hand in heart
I can start to feel the asphyxiation
how can I deal with the gratification of vacancy?
The truth in the blatancy
So I wait and see what will happen
Stuck in the latency of entrapment
A stagnant motion
The collapsing notion of lungs
A grasp that has my neck rung
Hand in heart
Heart in hand
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 1:01 AM UTC
-
Just basically an accounting of
language as it is conveyed
between media types
namely,
Air, Silicone and Mail ;
in Air,
you have to
basically be ready to
respond within a reasonable
period, say about three or four seconds
upon Silicone, you could "afk" and then
mix a drink- rinse out the mixing
utensils and type a response
with some degree of
forethinking
in Air,
you could breath
in the real-time vibes that
trigger automatic subject sensitivity,
like, _(something too disturbing for me to detail here)_
upon Silicone, you would be able to digitally
sort and discard these disturbing elements
and then lie to yourself about the
true weight of the
conversation
in Air,
a comedian can
deliver a punchline in
order to impulse a laugh out of you,
even to the point of spitting out your wine
upon Silicone, latency can cause punchlines
to be misinterpreted as an offense, which
will likely sully those carefully
established digital
relationships
—
You
could encode
the Air in the fashion
that Native Americans did
with campfires and blankets,
but i would never suggest that
you try and breath Silicone____ !
nor pattern the "the ins and outs"
of breathing within the basic scope
of a vacuum in order to encode
it upon a microchip that
can only be read by
a machine—
either way, in case you
may not have noticed,
Personal Letters are —at this moment—
asphyxiating into blue screen
oblivion,
deep inside the
Lost Mailbags of Redundancy...
"Comm_Check"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved
.
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 10:45 PM UTC