"linguists" poems
"sly wordplay, it glows, feels like a shimmering address, half warning and half blessing, really alive with cadence"
read Kiki Dresden poetry^
once more into the sea trench divide,
I dive to devise,
Your provoking comment,
demands my full attention,
you divert me from struggling with
ginger & clay,
a contra concept
that molds and enflames,
yet strikes overtly sweet,
it does not
come so easy
as this playful notion
But
your words deserve the
attention immédiate
atenção imediata
that births this script,
tumbling forth in an instantly
instantaneously
me student, you mistress~master,
schooling me on sublimity subliminal,
capturing the capering
stylistic that bursts forth from within,
that my fingertips provide,
while my brain connives & connivers
continuously
you overlay analytics
that never are to me
revealed,
the what and wherefore
of the whom
hiding within
of the im~perpetuity impish essence of
i m p ishness
by charmingly doing me, not once,
but many times better
here a spillage:
an observational ditty,
dressed in a tux,
most formally,
to render the greatest
wordplay
ever invented
t,
the uniqueness of a simple
thank you
my favorite poem
a forever for ever,
the song that
plys and plays me
in the me
so often,
the linguists have banned the word
repeatedly
from my lexicon
so in its stead,
this all-in-one mighty steed
(verb phrase, a noun, or an adjective depending on its usage)
this phatic expression,
here disguised in
Portuguese,
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
nml 5:39am nyc 10/4, 10/4
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
You are the brainteaser for what all the intellectuals have become somnambulist
Still you are inconclusive;
All the linguists have become asinine
Since the language of your eyes are indecipherable
Every single iota of your heart is a nuclear
And all men are in love with nuclear
When they burst, burst in silent
You are the only cloud
that brings rain in the heart
For you all sins seem Romantic
And all catastrophes are Dramatic
All lovers watch, and remain as a sparrow alone upon the house top.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
I want him to become so dizzy with me that he forgets what language he speaks and has to make up his own
Starting and ending with my name
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 2:48 AM UTC
There are three major stages of the English Language
According to historians and linguists alike
There is Old English when Beowulf defeated Grendel
And Middle English when Shakespeare birthed his sonnets
Finally, Modern English when Harry Potter spun his magic
However, I believe historians and linguists
Will say we are now in the midst of a fourth
I like to believe we are part of the history of language
But what will it be called? Tecno English or Neotext English?
IDK, but u will c um right. Just :) and $ me lates #stagesofenglish
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
Use all the combinations of consonants,
Blends, short and long i's;
Try intonation or diphthongs;
Resort to linguists;
Spell in Welsh.
You can't approximate
The muted sound
Of a breaking heart.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
*Tears as brittle
As glass cascade lazily down
Her rosy cheeks leaving behind
Indelible outstanding imprints
They reveal a brokenness
A vulnerability that’s so
Sweet and scary almost
In equal measure
Her eyes know not the
Splendor of a radiant sparkle
They downcast and a
Shade darker than normal
Naivety meekness and innocence
Jostle unabated within her eyes bounds
But seldom if never
Do her fears see the light of day
Her eyes speak a dialect
That would mind boggle linguists
Of reasonable repute
And render them obsolete
She undoubtedly a goddess
Of pure emotion and acute sensitivity*
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
Verbiage
Sagacious humans would concur
Salacious verbiage is trenchant
Verdant language withers a guileless soul
Hubristic linguists deem limpid oratory irksome
A Didactic, petulant, boorish, garrulous, nefarious, obtuse, and insolent
Overtone is not my intent
Puckish, risible, mannered, jocular, antic, and adroit
Reverberations I am manifesting
TRANSLATION
Words
Smart people would agree
Healthy words are sharp
Unripe words die naive spirits
Self-confident word users find simple language annoying
Moral instruction, rude, insensitivity, wordy, wicked, blunt, and contemptuous
Feelings are not my purpose
Impish (silly), laughable, artificial, playful, clownish, and clever
Reactions I'm hoping to create
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
I. (The Upcoming Trio).
There are three.
Of course there is only one right now,
but still, there are three
and they are lurking nearby
like a daddy long legs in the corner of a bathroom;
the more they daintily move around,
the more the need to do something about it.
One is foreign, far away,
young and surrounded by superglue sticky air,
questions having already been posed.
Two will lure you in with lipstick
and teems of sienna hair
but is taken with a drink.
Three, my strangers, is a bit of an unknown,
beautiful with powder blue eyes,
somehow missed on the first of the week.
Older! Would never have guessed.
I ask myself if one out of this group
will join the list of failures-to-be
with their own letters
or flowers
or stories
serving up rich reminders
of amateurish errors.
II. (The Summer’s End).
Before we all enter fall
some actions must occur.
A chat with five of those stepping up
into the world of small rooms,
nights out
and a lack of coins.
A reunion with linguists
for a talk and some tea
after over a year
since food in the market.
There’s also him
before he goes off to learn to teach,
P who had results last time round,
her with guy issues,
a fan of shoes
and the one above the rest
incapable of any words.
Good times ahead
with friends I hold dear
that ought to take place
before we all enter fall.
III. (The Procrastinator).
A ****** a waste
and a bag of mice on the floor.
Newspapers
under every little helps.
Really must be done
now,
now,
but no,
later,
tomorrow,
weekend,
why?
You haven’t gone back yet
to the days of park crossing.
Sort it out mate,
clear some space.
No more than an hour, tops.
How do you expect
to get anything done
if you don’t get up from the chair
and begin to move?
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
i have an ongoing
love affair
with words
that roll around your
mouth
luscious, langourous
lilliputitian letters
sensual syllables
slick- sliding off
the tongue
ecstatic explosions,
erupting, erogenously
exciting, eager exclaimations,
of enraptured exualtations
organic, original orientations
of teeth and tongue
producing oodles,
of apogeic anomolies
my affair
accomplishes much
for little
it is you see
just a not so secret love
of letter, line, jot and tittle.
a casting eye upon a word
and i am set rushing
down a path
reserved for those
with terms, descriptive,
and names.
that in themselves,
decry
wordlove.
lexicographers and bibliophiles
phoneologists, linguists, polygots,
jonguluers, wordsmiths scribes
poets.
all possess this
heartstringed
tangled knot,
spiderwebbed
feeling,
for words.
which, we then,
endevour to spin,
into inkstained beauty,
to ensare
ourselves ...and others.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
In the middle of the wood there are five dead
vowels, forged by greedy linguists from the
first line that they perceived as sound.
The first was bent until ends uniformly faced the
heavens, and it was balanced on it's rounded
arch, catching acorns away from hungry squirrels.
The second was bent and bent 'til ends met so
there was not a space around, and it was elevated
unawares by tendrils of vine that it banded together.
The third was taken further, no spaces were left,
and a tail was formed to hold its tattered shape
above the filthy floor of rotting leaves and mud.
The fourth was twisted further still, until it was
a surgical needle, threading sentences through
its eye and pulling them with sharpened leg,
helping spiders web their branches at night.
The fifth was spared from bending and twisting,
for it was pulled end from end, until one finally
broke free, and they didn't see the need to paste
it back together, discarded with the dying twigs.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
A dialect
so different
that gargles from our gulping mouths
was formed in the teenage years
the gap between child and adult.
It was formed in between the steaming windows
of our first shared room
was wrought by the sticky fingers of our midnight-feasting.
It developed over time,
your African ancestors licking at the chocolate in your teeth
sharing mingled moments of warmth and sadness
with the carefree twang of my pacific past.
We lay together
your dark skin melting into mine
and over time
our throats sculpted their own language
as Babylonian linguists rejoiced
at the Genesis of us.
But over time
the grammar stumbled
and diplomacy broke between us,
and the shared bed of our childhood
was cracked open by the semantics of our youth.
My tongue clung to the dancing prose,
as if to return to the moment of our first embrace,
my sheets ached for the scent of your skin;
Arched back missing your equatorial warmth.
I gushed out words for you
Choking on damp notions of our shared past.
I tried to force in the commas
that married your phrase to mine;
straining to utter those sounds that were so sacredly ours .
But my verses had no meaning,
when the apostle lost all faith.
And then
one day
like breath returning to a body,
our dialect once again filled you
head to toe, heavy with the wet weight of love.
And just as before
you spilled into my arms
Our tongues mingled in a garbled kiss
Of language, more physical than my owns hands
clinging to your butter-skin.
I felt you breathing against my heart
heard whispered extracts of your internal litanies
drifting out through parted lips.
And I felt again
the mangled words
the beautiful drawl
This dialect, so definitely ours.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
Chocolate drips from her eyelids. At
Sixteen, she dreamed for a galaxy
and the stars above twinkled as if to
comfort a dying wish.
Your tears are beautiful to us, they said. The knife
that cuts your skin is made of crystal. Write.
Write and weave your pain into
silk, tintinnabulation, a song
for the linguists.
Turn it into Beethoven’s 9th Symphony,
for that is the only reason you are here.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
If I see a word hysterical should i laugh or pause and think
of historically used meanings?
Should I shy from Jew and say Semite, I exodus from meanings.
time is evident or sedimentary
grandeur, I leave it all to linguists, cleverer than I,
I change daily, accent
acquire meaning etymological like
Knight is a servant?
Lady a kneader, Lord a provider of bread?
And bread, It has new meanings, as does green, several.
Logos, is still what you hear, an example,
to justify, I apologize, for saying?
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
In this chapter, I'll be writing a rather pleasing storylines. The pages are rough, old, dusty & sandined with the weather's breathe. Exactly my point.
I've watched and also learned that linguists seem to soar in language, and freely express themselves in the tongue of the Language they speak. But, good poem outweight a sane course. It's indescribable express where every words have their own thought to act and rhymes as figures in the speech.
I'll say a man whose words slur like nocturnal isn't perfect, and imperfection is a beauty rare. Good poem is a world apart, like consciousness morphing into unconconsness unconditionally. Yes! Good poem breaks the law. It's outrageous to say that this poem can match your heart like a sorcery of visual, and tactile of kinematicism echoing auditory patterns of gesticulation.
Good poem is alive, a merlin, a warlord that fight against injustice with intoxicating and provoking characters coming alive.
As I'd say as a new regent,
'good poem **** the bad ones'
Write a good poem, I'll like to read some a savor.
Mikelson
Dec 28, 2024
Dec 28, 2024 at 1:50 PM UTC
The white quarter socks with pink flowers in the bottom corner of my dresser (grey now)
The brown rope hammock at the Botanical Gardens
College dorms
April
Blue light glasses
UPS Trucks (and whatever they’re carrying)
Dark flannels
Pink and navy and gold (and cinderblock walls)
Magic mushrooms
The bridge halfway down at Max Patch (the beginning of the end)
Electric bills (in summer time heat)
Harry Potter
Halloween
Scoreboards (and their keepers)
Psychics in Manhattan
Cheap water bottles
Linguists
Architects
Couch ***
Vans (the sneakers)
Personality tests
Long, natural nails
Duffle bags
Biscuits at sunrise
Living Sadness in a world that doesn’t stop moving,
Just because you’re sad
Forgiveness on the tip of the tongue
The strange intimacy of unspoken truths
Of sacred silence
Of quiet, forbidden longing
The mad unfurling of a blueish love-
A love somewhere between earth and sky
Friend and Foe
Flame and ash and all that burns
Folding a corner
Turning a page
Finishing a book
Keeping it on the shelf
Forever,
Even if just for the memory
These are the things,
The things that make me think of you.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 6:53 PM UTC
We are newly discovered obsidian daggers
Covered in obscene diamonds
We had a great time in our scabbards
Until your archaeologists came and found us
We are accents of rhythm
Extracted from a linguists’ worst nightmare
We are apparently humid if not quite human
Ruminating on our naked dysfunctions
We are content to being secret agents
Masters of arguments in surreptitious suspense
We are sweat and salt upon naked backs
That attract you like the golden hues of slumber
The ochre of the jungle is crisper than a hundred dollar bill
Life-force fueled by something new and leguminous
Quetzals bluer than a waterfall or the sky above an igloo
I chased you to the bottom of a cup of coffee
To overcome the fear of drowning in a melancholy mood
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 12:11 PM UTC
Once
before this day began and I knew everything, where everything was in its place, labelled, facing in a line and behind the bottles of red wine, hidden from the fractured eyes of linguists who disguised as spies would entertain me to the thought that if I carried what they brought, the alphabets that we were taught would become redundant,
Oh, fractured eye why spy on me?
I am a lectern on a sea and slowly drowning, can't you see?
Oh, fractured eye why spy on me?
Now,
a million years ago,
I know that I know what there's not to know
which is everything that Mother should
have told me.
Family.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC