"machination" poems
You worth more than a thousand golden crowns
and continent wide silks
and all the brighter, wilting stars in the dark
and had you pulled the universe to you,
it will surely crawl under your thigh
as a machination made only for you.
And you worth more than the ten thousand horses that I had slain
and I pulled them onto your sheets
as whispery faeries gnawed onto its skin
onto its slippery vein
gory, but lovely all the same.
Alas, you worth more than another ten thousand of them running
hooves clattered across the impenetrable glass of auroral dome
and I saw you rode on another ten thousand that had not deserve you-
as you deserved gold and stars
and all the greater fury of this land,
not treachery and I.
Gold was the color of your ruse
and your words deify scorching stars into bloom
and you reek of rust — the finest yellow there was.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
Grapefruit: abomination!
Such a hybrid shan't exist!
So within my machination
This strange pink fruit I protest
But if it seems I cannot win it
I will find rest within.
Yes, the peace of all my oranges,
My fruit goes without a sin
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
The underbelly of my ego;
limpid, wrinkled carpet
of scars, petty thoughts,
and fearful self-machination.
Cold as a mottled monologue;
Selfish and maudlin
as a sneaky sot,
stealing affection from strangers.
It lurks in the alley of mind;
sinuous and grim
with cynical ire,
waiting to devour my dreams.
Approaching Creativity;
sweet progenitor of
color, light, and lift,
it pounces with dull, fiery claw.
Dripping venom and phantasm;
slayer of fairy tales
barely enwombed,
heartless Avatar of failure.
This then is my secret battle;
to slay and triumph
and win clear the way,
so the children of my light survive.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
Baptized in the framework,
emboldened dregs,
stolen legs,
having the will enabled,
will stoke flares.
Hope there's enough left,
to capitalize and trademark,
Mark.
These machination metaphorics may get way dark.
Witness the churn,
turn barrel, pour fuel.
Envision thrift in the burn.
Unequivocal innocents in the thick of it learn,
gun metal, flower petal.
Power is sick of our tone.
They play their tricks on our young,
to build a system above.
We killed the sadness
fit to galvanize
a truthful spirit,
loose beneath the masses.
lifted powder keg,
rug and broom,
others soon to be suiting fashion
Buried in a priory cast.
Wire he tapped,
isn't the first,
was a fiery blast.
I heard the ground stir, out turned choirs of wrath.
Give baron bread, give miner shaft,
and all the pigs just laughed.
All the swine surrounded, founded "Freedom".
Heavy quotes aligned to,
"leave em lying".
We declined to deify, redefine our civil vision .
Twisted lips and sirens, rent,
systems turn, climate,
worth, time to learn to hear and listen,
kids, earth, diet.
'On the list I promise'.
Truth can't hurt if you stay quiet.
Truth in earnest moves the strongest.
Our seeds to earth are truth in kindness.
Grow.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 4:34 PM UTC
when I reached the age of reason I hit the ground,
running. the thought flits
across compact mirror smudged from years of overuse &
abandon, left behind
in purse bottoms and backpacks every time I switch up my style &
move on to something:
new/ fresh / else.
a glance into glass &
I'm transported: a babe on white lambskin,
a second-hand nostalgia never wholly mine.
a missing, another memory removed,
a down-to-the-wire tally
added to the roster, unexpectedly
the emotional prodigy, ostracized
alongside destined veracity: as in my absolute
devotion to TRUTH!
the time skip, a box-out, a blackout, a kindness.
a comfort over the desk chair where homework completes itself
after countless 'mixtape playlists' limewired maniacally
alphabetized, rearranged & revised until dawn/
another decade / chapter: a bookworm,
a blockout, a maneuver 'round roadblock,
a machination, a manipulation, a deadening, a defeat,
an assistant Mother only a child
self, the intrigue... yet
here I am, a spectacle,
a miracle, a smashing, a light on an island out at sea,
an accident, a ripening survived.
can I trust myself. to dive in. for / by myself?
when I lift the stretch of lambskin from an atticked brown box,
a painted porcelain plate hits the ground,
shattered.
Jul 28, 2022
Jul 28, 2022 at 9:07 PM UTC
Desire or duty,
Love or lust,
Head or heart,
Want or necessity.
Over and over
i'm filled with emotion.
Unconditional coalition.
Brittle decision.
Feeling fusioned in a long-lived germination.
Certainty prevails, no hesistation.
On you, before men, i will make my jactation.
Your love shields me from labefaction.
Asunder, a mere machination.
Generations to come
tell our story
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
now it's my turn. I feel no different. No one else remembers that name but me. I don't know how that makes me feel. It's like objectively, the whole thing never happened, that it was another machination of my own will.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
my skull is heavy in my head. It solidified into copper some time during the night, and whenever I walk through my days, my head bobs this way and further, and on the sides of streets, people glance for a few seconds before returning to their own thoughts of hardened skulls within their own sloshing head-cavities.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'shepherd me a sheep, I, near my god, beyond my hopes, beyond my fears, from death into life,' as i remembered it wrong, bone rattle in a brick alley three years this thursday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*~
the division between days, illusory, quietly reclines itself between us, so deep and historic that our eyes see it time immemorial, forgetting that it is itself one continuous day, the breadth of it, this our time, that if left unhindered, it would have extended sloping and tumbling in its eaves and want of stars sailing for a morning. you and i were both there, for we were the nascent point from which all the souls fell from.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 4:12 AM UTC
Light illuminates
my dis-entombed thoughts
on gilded kite
prodding dust patina
mellow mote drifts lilt
hoping not to puncture the membrane
– I run –
attempted lift
fresh soil turns under foot
tread and gait escalate
pocked path reverberates
my insistence to avoid puncturing
Deceleration
Halted earthen assault
I ****** with machination the aerial apparatus
prior to complete stagnation
Decrepit deceit eschewed
Again – I run –
taut paper snap
sheet lift
weightless message intones
in knotted vertebrae, and closed palm
my chest lifts in unison
diaphragmatic sigh punched hollow
rhapsodic finesse
privy to atmospheric secret
my hand translates the ethereal
smooth fluttering undulations
oscillating tugs, dives, and slay
Calligraphic flourishes echo the linguistic menagerie
Byzantine illustrations
Pellucid canvas drunk with dye
Evinced in muddled thought
The ink bleeds down the twine
indigo echoes of entombed vein 'neath flesh
Translucent pulse haunts taut string
furling arc – tensed tissue
acrobatic hydrofoil
tugs – glides – taunts
Ostensible horror conveyed in clenched palm
The ether curtly responds
Swift redirect
Sliced palm
Tethered scream evocation
cochineal deluge concedes
Deep purple liquid clings
Congealing - between sodden twine and palm
Whispering currents furl saturated line
into fresh groove, disturbing the clot
The wound bucks as flotsam
Relentless onslaught
I yield -
I release you
Your ethereal message tattooed into my palm
Some things were ne'er meant to be restrained
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
we are clockwork creatures
with phantasmagoric features
precisely ground and divinely wound,
we measured movements, prosaic and sublime
our cogged kingdom, cherished chunks of time
our ticking, a marching machination
our faces, a reflection of the lost
a prediction of the found
we now make simpering sounds
on our path to rust
made obsolete by the silicon effete,
the cyber elite, that-which-who
never succumb to rust, or join us
in our reverent return
to dust
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
This is my American Spirit
Though I am loathe, but deserved to hear it
This is my generation in a long, sour drag:
Bohemes and hipsters, the self-important type
Self-serving directness with subtle insouciance
Self-righteous without e’er scents of conviction
Qualities, to all, vogue slimming befit
This, this is my American Spirit.
I’ll be the equalizer in a furtive game of chess
And acquaintance, its partner, arbitrating
I’ll wear the habit of means and humility
An ashen cherry, flicked, waiting to be
The pyrrhic finite ember and pastiche memory
Escape is apparent in discontinuity, my
Means to ravel a courser bond in someone,
As only a blush reminder only when they all clear it
Yes, this is my, my American Spirit.
We’ll have a game of butting desires
‘Tween all those appetites and some self-respect
Only, I know, to lose out in the end.
Is there a place for dignity to prevail
Or charm in an attempt likely to fail?
Can there be eyes open, minds or thought
To gentle pride its combatant ‘gainst
Unconscious abuses: yea or not?
But I will know irony as means to an end
Turned cheek from machination
That I can do, I can pretend
When the veil may be lifted—that I fear it
This, this is my American Spirit.
Of course I enable, for the cynosure, the dissonances
Supplant for fraternity fraternal-ligature
Too obvious is resolve ‘neath shaw of fleeting smoke
My own wants impeded, kept at a distance.
For, oh, Fortune! How you have written
Some conscience to mend it to others kept calm
A charity in practice as this cigarette is long
While vice, in all aspects, is the most correct wrong
But hummed out in truth as a fascist, he ought
I’ll turn to a tonic of strength to delude
That pretense and pride the conscience denude.
In some be it strong in others enthralled
Whilst ********* our prayer beads of looking-glass selves
Quietly burning the vestigial gods
That brought us a new light or perspective on things
And though we are loathe, we despise to hear it,
This, this is our American Spirit.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
A man in a black suit
Walked through an iron post
A clerk stared in stunned silence
No, he was not a ghost
His black Cadillac sped away
Throwing the darks aside
Yes, it no longer mattered
He got a whole **** world inside
A righteous cloth wavered
On one side of the fender
Like a lonely lost cowboy
Slowly losing its luster
Yes, it does not matter now
It was only an old symbol
It won't free up enough bucks
To do anything rational
From the needle-point of view
Of the naives and downtrodden
The great spot was exploitative
Mind you, it owned the mainstream
From the artful thoughts
Of the artless and the browns
'twas a friendly fishing net
Crowding everyone around
There was a unifying vision
Yet it was oversimplified
There was much to condemn
That which can not be spoken
Since the losers were good
The winners were awesome
Never mind the conspiracy
Never mind the stealthy harm
It works all the same
All over mighty federations
What's built into the system
May never be reformed
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
milbrightlions of December —
you come announced in multiplicity.
even the night-herald blooms through
the beams of astounded simulations.
buoyantly uttering a word
of light, stilling itself in the sky,
unasked for.
surmounting the Narra and the mangrove,
sieged to a halt in its exactitude
like the uncomplicated machination
of what makes fire simmer in a wick.
all of its brazenness hearten
in easily toppled altitudes — even our
battlements scar our unexplained
liminality we grieve at first glance.
airless are the spaces we lean on,
testing their capacities. shrills bloom
clearer. our mouths plump and glazed.
our flesh hurtle all incarnadine, all true
unlike the twining of roads lit like
faces in the marketplace —
a dynasty of brokenness.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 6:17 AM UTC
Answers for the bold,
Machination of desire and bone.
Twisting words with honest filth,
Answering by knowing.
Paled and withered words from mirrored faces.
Spite and curse upon your disregard.
Wraiths defying with sideshow horrors,
Corruption promised but always delayed.
With buttons of expected convenience,
You promise release.
Spit to your mucus.
Rage to your withered rulings.
Bladed aphorisms to your faced extremities.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
Pacing empty sidewalks,
Chasing insubstantial things,
I a sheep without a shepherd
Fear the silence. As it rings,
I watch the traveler dance,
Slipping from shadow to silhouette,
Passing charletans, in Retrospect,
Undeserving of regret,
Unnaturally cold and
Teeming with thoughts of sin.
Their whispers wonder carelessly,
Riding like vapor on the wind.
"Your lie is my salvation", I muttered,
And in response was spoken,
"Your flaw is imitation,
And your will is finally broken",
Scattered across the Planes,
Indistinguishable in the dust and gloom.
I the champion of Martyrdom
Lie gracefully in my tomb.
Beneath where the nightshades bloom,
For Nature's rage to consume,
The coup de gras in Her machination,
I provoke Her henchmen as they loom.
Here to repossess Her time and toil,
For misuse of Her ethereal gift,
She cleanses the canvas in lavender oil,
And sets Her new vessel adrift.
We, weary, wake and wallow,
In search of another creature,
Waiting for someone to follow,
Just floating in the ether.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 1:10 PM UTC
Little light filter and wane
Cold winds rising again
For the years where seven meant twelve
Where seasons could feel like time born anew
Love dominating our worldview
All for adventure shared between friends, two
Now the world, forgotten and new
Continues to grow, just as the trees once faded from view
In the mirror where I said goodbye to you
Lights of distant futures idly pass by
Not in the iris of a loved one's eye
Rather the lowered box around which the gathered cry
Selling all these years out from under you
Tonight, or yesteryear, a hundred months ago
Just the sweetest bit of mind for a momentary respite
The colour and taste of a heart unbidden by time
A machination of the human crime
Cold winds low and gentle
Warm winds high and dry
The sound of rain as cars drive by
An upstairs I haven't seen in years now long gone
In places where not even my memories I could rely
The only safe spaces to say goodbye
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 2:40 AM UTC
I would see words forged into action
by these hands of broken memory,
memory that still haunts the darkest nights.
The barren tongue of sparse reaction
concealed in cocoons of silenced delight
decorated in jeopardy and lethargy.
The ramblings of an assumed madman
spent wandering these unforgotten years
comforted only by the monastic echoes of ashram
left to deliver his final illuminated message
unto the radiance of waiting ears.
The days have been long,
hastened by the majesty of moonlight
perishing in cirrus cloud formation.
Like the nightmares of crippled machination
and sheathed divinity more man than hallow.
Caressed by warmth of the morning sun
and in it a song for every fleeting shadow.
And this was the message:
Like all beautiful things:
We.
Must.
Fade.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
The inner tenacity of my machination is rarely understood by many, an introspections of certain recollections that ponder that question..why? But I need not tell you, about gum on your shoe, or the expletive deleted that come after. So I do open doors, and sit on floors, and give random flowers to random ladies. But I am sucker for a smile, an unpredictable trial, of something so innocent as simple happiness. But Then I surely do jest, at the most convenient time, to make fitting a punch line of a joke. And if merely opulence of thought was my only intent, then blushing is the inevitable conclusion. For if I am too boast, to little more than an atrocious manner, then I too am I fool, and love is the tool of a dumb and blind man's decent. As I oddly beg the question...do you have any cream for my coffee, then sit back and take in the wisdom, of times that are far beyond me. To place with no boundaries or burdens, no dying or decay, a place where I can live a life inside a cherished, loving way. For love is always fleeting, more often flooding in, I grab a cup and sit back, it's time to enjoy the days begin. Cause the sun is just about to rise and being to realize, this is some awesome free writin, that almost feel like I might just be bitin, some style that heard through words orchestrated from past memories flowing through an electrical breeze. But I am no artist, no rapper by design, I am merely a healer of the mind. Given the skills of mental manipulation over unguided emotional frustrations that are products of blinded attention to feelings within the heart. The mind is a terrible thing to waste.....but an unbridled heart can lay waste to it all! Logic is the mind...emotions are the heart...watch what happens when one pulls these two apart, into a tragic representation of what it means to be truly scared, a blessed manifestation of a ****** ******
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
For breakfast, I brought my self-loathing undisguised by bruised, hollow eyes and disquieted moaning,
all crunched up into the contours of your hard edges,
like thin-veined broken and browned, misused leaves orphaned from its parent.
My desperate limbs always reaching, wretched, to shoddy fill into the gaps that your self-confidence casual posture had formed on the floor;
empty-air spaces and pervasive shadow caverns I have claimed without verbal invite, promise or asylum.
No self-confidence to speak from, anguish and primal, seeking shelter;
pain entwined with pain making easy comfort in forgetting.
A soul disquieted;
there are pieces stripped straight down, pinned together in different places, unspun and uneven smears of paste that don't ease closed the obvious imperfections.
A harmful machination unexplained, fitted negligently back together,
the design with no catalyst to begin, untended and purposefully without purpose.
No comprehensible enrichment, selfish perversity plodding culmination,
almost complete.
Build, re-build; conspiracy laced with nonchalance; twisted person alchemy.
Any or Each of Many becoming
the godhead of a shallow, malcontented deception,
rudiment contortions to mangle, punish, ruin
an altruistic heart; a beaten wooden phoenix shaped from past wrongdoings and misery.
More burning away, combustion of reclaiming, bones and sinew steeped in the truth of the universe.
Unjustified and never the differentiation my heart once blamed, not good nor bad.
We, two souls alike in circumstance, circumference, cylindrical,
watching the world make more of us, clutching bird-like shoulders merged through a pale waning.
Existent time-limited victims of disappointed alliances,
made in the land entrenched in the business of making monsters who make monsters.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
your tiny frame is a kingdom, no
a world of oceans and lands
ravaged by the course of nature,
the blight of humans
you are the earth.
your green eyes are the sea, wait
more like the galaxies up above
infinite in their creation
unsearchable by any kind of
ego-restrained machination
your fragile bones are structures, but
statues made in honor of something so profound
you've been thinking so hard to find
it is inside not the bone marrow that sticks around,
rather the fleeting memories you ignore in your mind
your soul is a flame, not even
it is the big bang
that brings us all to life
in your honor, all the angels have sang
I am so honored to have the privilege to call you mine.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
"She speaks poinards and every word stabs"
*Much Ado About Nothing
Shakespeare*
Her voice, a silken cord,
wrapped around your neck
Her intent, harm,
a slow lingering death
by rememberance
of her disdain....
By the point of her tongue
You are lanced, again
and again.
You would not think her
an asassin....
of the highest decree,
as she sits prim and proper,
taking tea.
But stray from the narrow
path she sets..
and slow scandulous death
will beset you.
Make no mistake...
She is out to get you.
Her tongue a poinard,
Her mind, a machination,
camouflaged with coy,
polite inclination.
Her body, allurement to
ambuscade.
And then the death of
a thousand cuts begins.
Be you male, female
or mixed gender
she does not discriminate
the sharp tongued assassin
lives to win...
To cut you down, slice by
slice, by slice..
That is Madame Gossip's
much loved vice.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
raised in a way
not to savor the day
not to lay in the hay
or just play
but to
pay
pay
pay
caught in the gears
of these soul crushing years,
I feel Helpless
and so I turn to that sweet kiss
of chemical bliss
to experience some
of what this cage makes me miss.
I can't remember a time
where I wasn't in Line
rank and file,
won't you stand and wait for a while?
Do this.
Get that.
Do that.
Get this.
cause and effect,
a lifestyle that leaves
very little time to reflect
on what you're actually doing
every day,
this pattern cannot stay.
Apathy invades the hearts and minds
of our kind,
brought on by an inability to change
or even rearrange
this world that's become
so Strange.
Despair,
in the face of such a menacing machination.
Fear,
in the face of such an unfeeling application.
Behold the Beast of progress,
never to rest,
created by man,
driven by our hand,
fed by our compliance,
sustained by our reliance.
May 22, 2011
May 22, 2011 at 2:33 PM UTC
that sad sounded lady
with open mouth
espys the edge of gloom,
like a whales calling
the tide compresses
as an unvaliant chain,
the machination of cause
will not whisper sweet serande
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
"Sometimes love is stronger than a man's convictions."
- Isaac Bashevis Singer
*
There are wars and rumors of wars.
machineries and machination of
singular dark days
and singular dark clouds that hang
like props above our city.
We shut the window, we avoid their play.
Hungrily we take refuge between
each others' legs.
How comforting this is to us,
to love without armies or tanks
or generals of reasoned love.
*
From the narrow street, they can see us
wrestling with an angel -
the tugging of limbs and hair-
You speak low so they can’t hear
your seditious talk of love,
where my callused hands get tangled
in your low moaning - while I hold you down
to the bed,
my captive.
The occupation has begun —
your occupied body
my undiminished country of so many
ardent prayers.
*
The soldiers are all leaving for the front.
Not us, we will stay
and wage our war
of tenderness.
They are all leaving this morning.
Give them your applause for their sad
theater, and all their war ships
and planes.
Soon
they will write letters home
which will arrive without them.
A few men will return,
return gaunt; much less
than before
with more sadness and less
dancing.
And when they do
our war
will have ended
with a flag of white
bed sheets,
only a little blood,
Victorious,
writing love letters on each others' bodies.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
By Nabs
Have you ever heard
the sound of the wind dying?
It sounds a lot like your hoarse crying.
Broken moons, stifled sobs
smell of cardamom and pain.
Angry strokes, lightning brush
across this singed canvas.
Paint me with a storm.
Paint me with a storm.
Guttural rumble of disagreement,
muted in its pallor.
Second hand embarrassment
is lethal to the skin.
Broken bottles, broken souls
stuck in a machination of malfunctioning systems.
we never had control in the first place.
We put energies in our sorrows,
forgetting to store them for our backbone.
No wonder we can't stand straight
and look up to the sun.
"Amnesia", we would plead.
Cause all we remember is how to bleed.
Have you ever heard
the sound of the wind dying?
It sounds a lot like the day we went crashing.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
exhaust of night's guttural snarl
sleep, with its fixated eyes
break the silence's dagguerotype.
edges of the moon fringe
until its fingers sort out
plenitudes of configuration:
ignition upon contact,
consummation upon acquiescence,
pilgrimages within unmoving juxtapositions;
suspended on intimation,
void's hands swirl in depth
lithe like a leaf, falling intimately on
the ground: my body's collapse
to surrendering machination.
it begins swollen to the full
and ends, aching,
yet unfazed by the untenable quicksilver
of mind's pompous meander to a field
where it so subtly blows,
the wind in all spaces.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC