"loci" poems
there were things
i had never imagined
i would understand
be; experience
and gape bemusedly at my
unbelieving ambiguous eyes
in the unnoticeably clear
smiling mirror of the bathroom.
things such as
being a creep
the creep whose wandering eye
wanders just a wee bit longer.
A microsecond length of
the not-understood, the suspicious,the dubious
the curious sometimes,
but really mostly nefarious lunatic, perhaps...?
the creep whose teeth clench into a
smile.
the lips parting
but only
Mendaciously...perhaps..?
the creep who peers into me
like a god
scouring my precious little secrets
my hurt points,
my loci of scandalous innocuous things
meant to be inside of me
for my self.
the creep who infringes
on my warm bed
of Safety.
***
********
erectile dysfunction
sneer
******
*****
me
father
mother
weirdity
all the complexes
that make you Feel
like a spider
whose web is shattered with
but an uncaring finger.
power.
Uncaring Callousness
terrifying in it's brutality
intent ,
and things beyond .
the creep peers in.
but i was only trying
to make friends.
a bit too hard , perhaps...?
oh the creeps of the world
i understand thy plight
the fact that you never understand
what you are
doing
but only after it has passed
that the black hole irises
of un-understanding visages
come to you
to inform you
that you have been
a creep, the Creep.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
I heard of a man
who never owned a
television.
Instead he bought
a set of solid oak
bookshelves stained
like mahogany.
With the money
he saved on cable,
he filled them with
classics like Plato,
Aristotle, and Dostoyevsky.
He studied Darwin
and Descartes, and
memorized poems by
Whyte and O'Donohue
Because he never
made the switch to
high definition, he
could afford trips to
Rome and Tuscany.
Walking those ancient
streets and resting
in those heavenly fields,
he learned the art
of attentiveness,
minding the
genius loci
of a place,
and setting
one's cadence to
the breath of the wind.
And in the end,
he had a few books
of his own,
but they taught
nothing new
other than
how to truly live.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
rhyming poetry is out, no vogue there,
what's in is... punctuated poetry...
not poetry afraid of Loci (tricksters that
, ; : ' and - are), sláinte
(~slanché) to the daring!
p.s. the powerful had a monopoly on letters
for too long! so let's approximate in reverse
to what they made power out of style,
forget the existential dittoing macabre and
just plainly state: on the street we say slanché,
in your tomb of holding onto power we
have to write sláinte; better knowing that
than wearing a t-shirt with ernesto guevara
to pretend a cool.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
well... when you begin in a "premature"
(so called)
phase,
and can't produce any *****
you know what happens?
in the first half, of your 30th year
you'll; literally grow out of the practice...
ah he he he he.... loci's words, not mine.
but it's true, once you start dictating a drink
that's amber bitter, that's code for english ale
and you have corvus corax to boot...
you're bound to find a second for a thought
concerning valhalla.
but i'm dead serious...
when you start to ********** prior
to puberty, knowing that prior to puberity the act
doesn't produce any ***** well... by the time
you hit 30... you kinda stop the practice...
it's ******* weird though...
go a month without ***********
what are you going to find that's "remotely"
******
how about a magic trick?
pet a cat with a toothpick.
i'm serious about that: pet, a cat, with, a ******* toothpick.
and that's me basically saying: omni-eroticism just
found its place.
a cat and a toothpick?
are we talking about iranian poets?
what?! one and the other at the same time?!
**** me! that's clever!
seriously though, when you start engaging in the practice
at an absurd age, to begin with, i.e. 7 / 8.... and that's not a fraction,
you forget the whole shindig by the time you hit 30...
voyeurism and *********** sort of die off
i can't stomach this ****** oh look! i'm clued in!
i rather have the ******* key, than keep staring through
the ****** keyhole.
which makes drinking, to excess,
so much fun, if you're unrepentant,
via the disrepture with asians having an intolerance
with the juice.
but hell! it's so nice to realise the complete cenobite potency
of, finally having become bored of ************
it's a bit like a gay "coming out of the closet";
fuck's sake! burn the bras! moment.
cats and toothpicks though?
that **** is kinky... pet a cat with a toothpick,
and it'll turn into a leather clad gimp;
i have no idea why they like the prickly sensation,
i guess it must invoke a sense of frost, pinching them,
esp. since they are *maine *****
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:04 PM UTC
#someone is listening.
someone is listening All the time someone is watching your back . Hardships are fun .
boredom is death.
Death is a pause ,and you need a full stop to stop altogether.
There is no full stop in a circle but a circle of course is a loci after all of a dot. A full stop. Nucleus is you .
You the periphery .
Death will not ease your thing but will delay and embitter the future.
To the one that is you .
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 4:09 AM UTC
condensed locus enhanced poets of great note located where
generally
somewhere together by reader and writer tension weaving logic relaxed um complicated
capable feature realized
cadence
is mine not yours, meant to be an example of non-
alliteration a split-shot
decadent performance.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
lekki, and
thus said leki...
former: slightly.
and latter: medicine....
medicine: or pills...
that's half a summary
of leftovers...
strutting toward
a hamstrung plagiarism
worths' worth of
kindergarten blah blah...
if ever the case
was ever the rheumatic catchphrase
or said: gyroid stubble...
the five o'clock tanning...
yep, lekki meaning a slightness,
meaning a gargantuan woo...
a slightness,
and that's half of ascribed Loci...
leki means medicine,
a plural circumstance...
letki meaning
paper-weight...
lekki hark and stutter...
Loci... or lost jarring toward
insinuated lightness,
as said: personified lightness,
unbearable to the suitor Kundera.
oh the stutter.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
sloping in a manner
where outside the brindled
world, light bends
like all else in loose wind
i can almost see
and make out with what
secret blueprint your
body works in its
mischief - or with what feast
welcomes the bounty of
your secret passages.
take this now. a pint of ether.
or something real like
this look on my face harpooning
your eyes unknowing of their
consequences.
just the subtle hint of
what my mind tries to
unclose in you makes
all shadows of my body frenzied
with tantric thought of doing
this and that and so much more
than just
this and
that...
like squeezing juice out
of the freshest fruits
or watching the rain
taint everything in picturesque
detail - or ****** of
butterflies on a clad flower,
or what the sea haplessly tries
to engrave on the shores with
its frequent, frothing thrusts
or making it all perpetual in
motion trapped in the bona fide
moment. say, i will
feign a moment of
colliding into you and
feel your surrendering force
imprint small indentions
without confiding in the exactitude of this domain where
i have you lured into my song
like a child put
to sleep.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
I'm a ghost,
a pathetic ol' ghoul,
I am trapped
in your palace of memories
And the walls, are now playing, the beatles, she sweet.
And the table, is covered in parks.
And a sobbing old Mickey across
With a note in his hand
And it smells just like, you
I hear dance, from the ceiling,
And it sounds, like a croon
Slowly Float, through the hall, to your bath
Made of emerald and grey sand
And I swim, in your toilet, with a packet of *******
There's a key, at the bottom, it tempts, as I swim,
To the end, with the key, in my hand
And I walk, to your door
I hear laughs
You're a part, of me, still
You still haunt me
I open the door
And see you smiling
I smell your warmth
I feel you touching my chest
And I was happy to let the house crumble
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 6:44 PM UTC
<>
”What worth, dear man, are thee to me?
Of Brotherhoods eternity,
Esteemed, thy worth, from whence thee came?
In consequence, by any other name.
Whence laughter creased and cracked thy face
Wouldst sadness flee to lesser place?
And wouldst thou rather, not have been?
A thought we all would curse....obscene!
Of what thy vaulting valued prose?
In essence, beyond scented rose.
Perchance, dear friend, that thee should die?
Hot tears would rain from blood red sky”
**MARSHALL GEBBIE
<§> <§> <§> <§> <§>
the reconciliatory process, never ending,
one seeks to estimate his worth on this earth,
harmonizing his consciousness with an undated
human elegy, appraising his qualifications on a
malleable but fixed scale;
fixed are the qualities:
kindness, kindness, then courage to be more kind!
honesty, honesty, the honesty of rigorous estimation,
the excess of giving love always more, eradicate selfishness
malleable is the scale!
an instrument that measures more, always more,
the little lines on our ruler, meter stick, are but a
ladder to a ceiling ever visible but luckily unattainable
the highest grade attainable is glorious failure that
says, back to the drawing board, redrawing thy image,
the singular constant, a grail with no final location,
an equation that is a starry palate of moving loci:
we are each an each
formed by all the points satisfying a particular equation
of the relation between human coordinates, or by a point, line,
or surface moving according to the defined conditions of what is
truly human, hands touching, skin to skin
here is the wondrous rub, the most excellent complication!
the human equation by its very conceptual essence can be solved
by numbers of two or greater value, one, is non-viable, worthless,
a zero equivalent, no solution to all you seek to understand
in this then, we summarize:
you can be a successful human, if and only if, you comprehend that
we exist only, we are defined ourself by the plurality of friendships,
thy own worth, is not yours alone, existing only in the grasp of others, and thus we answer the riddling question:**
*** What worth, dear man, are thee to me?***
5:15 PM Mon Oct 12
2020
Location coordinates are:
Latitude: 41.048513558171045
Longitude: -72.36516056990725
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 5:49 PM UTC
Bleed me like the root
that burns sins away.
Find me green with envy
along the Mica veins.
Sermons over tiny crescents,
Jack-in-the-pulpit given.
Ghostpipe smoking
with incense risen.
-
Fern's red flower.
Trumpets, devil played.
Creeping by the hour,
Periwinkle's struggle inlaid.
Spirals, the vine choking,
Birch witnessed it all.
An elongated anticipation
before the king snake's fall.
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 3:18 PM UTC
Some new can be the same
And some same can be new.
New can be same
If there are the same results,
The same viae
To arrive at the same loci.
Things are different though
All the same.
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 10:34 PM UTC
I have this need this desire this certain
walk along the park mentality
where words fall from trees
the meanings from small animals
the sense , that creativity
art, if you will,
comes just from trying,
or walking along a riverbank in the beckoning
of a spring shower
or a thunderstorm
threatening to strike
all down with a whirlwind tempest,
almost , but, words and loci
are much calmer, the aforementioned was but
feelings, I consider
every feeling , call it in,
consider it as reasonable
a second or two,
then reign the unmentionable into words,
strike the pose
as Poseidon,
blow wind words into the sails
of Genesis, into the breeze of
the mountains,
smoting verb snow covered every
mountaintop
the very verb filled valley
with uniqueness,
because,
I can.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 11:47 PM UTC