"masquerading" poems
Art is opinion masquerading as truth.
When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist.
Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher,
and should not be the end of the penman.
When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth
It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past;
whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall
Descriptive yet lies
Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ********** of thought, that leftover dream of God
That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
Sorry - login failed....
OK...easy - of course it's me;
I’m authentic, not me pretending to be me
or someone else pretending to be me
or me pretending to be Swine Poet;
no, it’s not
Swim Goggles masquerading as Noodles Mee;
or Pretty Pig pretending to be Ugly Duckling;
so let’s try again – it’s easy…sure, I know my password….
OK….
Sorry – login failed….
OK…
it’s easy....I’ll give you my username
and here’s password…Enter…here we go…
Sorry – login failed….
Hey! You’re joking with me, right?
you know it’s me, and you’re just kidding, right?
What?
If at first you don’t succeed – try, try again…
OK, OK…let’s go again….
Sorry – login failed….
Hey, man – or woman, this is serious…
Oh I see – my thick fingers
might have landed on 9 instead of 8
and on g instead of f –
you see? It’s me….I’ll try and use my most slender fingers
and avoid my thick fingers…
Knock and the door shall be opened…
OK…here we go…username…hmmmmm….easy now….
slender fingers, remember….OK….password….careful now….
use slender fingers only….Enter! Yipppppeeeeee!
Sorry - login failed....
Hey- it appears I’m thick-headed as well!
Come on – give me a chance!
It’s almost like being denied at Heaven’s doors!
I’m having an identity crisis here, baby!
You want to see me have a breakdown and
send me to a madhouse, or what?
All right, all right…cool down…easy….easy…calm…
Take a deep breath….
Username…OK….slender fingers, now…eyes on keyboard…
…Password….slender fingers, remember….eyes on keyboard….
Now, all good….I think….Want to say a prayer?
Come on – it’s not that serious….Alright….ENTER!
Yes – I’m in! Hey guys – here I am!
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 1:29 AM UTC
In the yellow,
cold light
of the wine-dark
night,
'tween the brand-new mall
and the Roman Site,
he staggered
alone,
drunken
with "Magon"*
and memories.
Vast,
so vast is the night -
vast
as the memory
of an English
prairie,
and an emmer-haired
maiden
he'd walked
to the ferry
on a summery day.
Vast,
so vast
is a night
masquerading
as a want of sight.
© LazharBouazzi
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
A demon masquerading
as the almighty dollar;
she is cunning,
and she is tricky.
She is beguiling,
and she is illusory.
Deceitful and avaricious,
yet believers follow
aimlessly. To have her
in your possession is
nothing like how it
feels to be stripped of her.
Those who succumb to
her seduction are granted
luxury and leisure;
the pledge to idolize
her mindlessly is
engraved into our brains.
Indigence, starvation;
the deprivation of the
green goddess is malicious.
Free yourselves from the hold
she has on you; from the
worldly power she possesses.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC
A shroud that blooms a single bud,
Blossomed at the peak of perfection,
Piercing eyes of those who dare to behold-
Taking trance to those of hereafter.
She waits to vicariously live through another,
By piercing one with her sharp thorns,
A trickle of blood released from her holder,
Captivates her swooning love.
Fooling the world with her perfume.
It covers her stain.
Truly a lifeless child with a brown core
Rotting out the ends of her teeth,
Cracks at the seams that should be mended;
Should be stitched
perfectly.
Instead lost in the intertwined lines-
withering from the inside.
Unable to grasp each end of the rope.
Never could weave the fabric with a still hand,
She
slips into Darkness.
Although she cast a tranquil shadow,
She fades into the background-
Slipping silent as her seems come undone.
Fooling the world with her transparent seal.
It covers her shame.
A single blossom that blooms in the spring,
And dies each night by the moonlight-
Howling outside to try and wake her inside.
To regurgitate her woven ends,
To seal the wound pried open by her past.
By her current death bed.
Sharpening her thorns for those who take hold,
Masquerading her disease-
black vessels rooted in deep soil-
Fooling the world with her beautiful petals.
Only she's to blame.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 11:03 PM UTC
Somebody call Ben Affleck
We got phantoms in this *****
This endless haunted mansion
Their presence pervades
No company
In this lonely labyrinth
Only phantoms
The only figures resembling humanity
Are the corpses of those before
Who couldn't navigate this torturous structure
And of course, the masquerading phantoms
My soul they aim to puncture
I tried closing my eyes
But I just kept running into walls
I tried sleeping through it
But I just sank deeper into the basement
When I attempted to join the phantoms
You were there
You waited until I was hanging there
On the rope
And eviscerated everything
Lycanthrope
The rope in shreds
Your heart then fled
Leaving me alone again
Lying in my exhausted blood
The phantoms sensed my desperation
And took advantage of my disorientation
So I ran to the darkest recesses of the basement
To retrieve my blindfold and sledgehammer
But is my hammer powerful enough?
Will visual impairment abstain the trickery of ghosts?
I put Sisyphus to shame
With the determination I utilize to demolish these walls
But the phantoms are devious
They ***** new facades
Thicker, sturdier, with odder textures
I destroy them all the same
It just takes a bit more time
And time means nothing
To a man who's sole purpose is knocking down walls
And cowering from apparitions
Yet a man means nothing
To a time ruled by phantoms
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
*This is a poem for Rachel Corrie. I am not religious, and a far cry from spiritual, but I refuse to imagine Rachel Corrie insentient and six feet under, slowly amalgamating with the soil encasing her. Before her death, Rachel Corrie said “I still really want to dance around to Pat Benatar and have boyfriends and make comics for my co-workers. But I also want this to stop.” In the words of contemporary Palestinian poet Suheir Hammad “God has a better imagination than all of us combined” in either God's words or my own, I will not imagine in/on the same ground in/on which I maybe soon will be and more words from Suheir “What do I tell young people about non-violence when they can see for themselves how even orange bright and megaphone loud and cameras and US citizenship will not stop your ****** what do I tell young people/anyone even myself about “non-violence” when every single thing I've seen presenting itself/perhaps even masquerading as “non-violence” has been in my face and /rude/harsh/unavoidable and most of all, violent? I do not believe in God and humanity is pushing it's luck, but I believe in Rachel Corrie. This is for Rachel;*
I should study a she-wolf's prose
she wanted to write about death
but life would frequently
weasel and wheedle it's way in
there’s an overhanging image
a smaller
yet
infinitely larger
organism
continuously broached
by each word
I only want to study
a caterpillar’s motion
backward/forward /onward
across arms/legs
of this deer/dear
[her] surname/
[my] given name/
separated by [semi/totally] circular VOWels
***** blond hair
dirtied by dust /
rubble /
rhyme /reason/
whatever/ in compliance
with a rep/RESENT/ative democracy
several shades lighter
literally
figuratively
whiter
than she
need no permission
pat benatar
would/should croon
to your moves
every
boy and girl friend
i will/may/have/had
should be yours
entomo/insecto/[social] phobias
I never would’ve said so
I never
would’ve/
could’ve
told the caterpillar
to go
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 8:41 PM UTC
Hello again Melancholy.
Why are you so unkind to me?
Melancholy
Is it too much for joy to hover viciously above pain?
Melancholy
For my pain to be less than joy I would give you gold;
melancholy.
But you are too familiar and you know my kin.
Melancholy
Burden has aged my back, bent to understand;
Melancholy
That even in mirth the heart,
melancholy
can be forlorn.
Melancholy,
I would that you were just an acquaintance passing through;
melancholy.
But all your lies cling to me,
melancholy!
How to be rid of you?
Melancholy?!
Forced to see through the sting of blinded hearts’ tears, the eyes of
Melancholy.
Such, sweet, sad, silent, sadness is
Melancholy
My bitter friend masquerading as my enemy
melancholy.
~ QB
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
In the yellow,
cold light
of the wine-dark
night _
between the new mall
and the Roman Site _
he staggered
alone,
drunken
with "Magon"*
and memories.
Vast,
so vast is the night _
vast
as the memory
of an English
prairie,
and an emmer-haired
maiden
he had walked
to the ferry
on a summery day.
Vast,
so vast
is a night
masquerading
as a want of sight.
© LazharBouazzi
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 1:02 PM UTC
The naked sound of the earth dream of
The stealing wind my mind left long ago,
When it rained after thousand years
Illuminating my heart with
The measureless lure of emptiness,
I danced to the desolation of my life.
I saw life masquerading under the drops
That fell from the shifting citadel above.
I lost the bliss once for my sin
And here comes the rain with my rebirth
To cover me with the desert sand dune
To wake me up in another land.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:36 AM UTC
*je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
Have not chatted in awhile,
me rutted in NYC,
a city of constant tear down
and sometimes flashy urban human
renewal...
While you,
you getting on with life,
growing up, growing down,
buying clothes for a new school season,
or growing children,
or boxing up now grandchildren memories of memories...
falling in love, writing poetry all about it...
You,
in Nepal, Malaysia, India,
Seattle, Portland, and the Florida's panhandle,
the US Midwest sainted hinterlands,
the South, that makes one love water,
water that has travelled from the faraway,
island continent of professorial Australia,
Did I forget the Philippines?
worse sin committed,
is that in
your poetry
I have not toe dipped,
quite the long erstwhile,
after loving it with
obsession devotion...
so just a Saturday afternoon
note penned just to you
and you alone...
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
So by way of apology,
craft a poem for you exclusive,
more than each word, letter,
every syllable, tongue tasted
for conjuctivity,
breadth and thus discovered
notes of red soil, raspberry, lemon,
even a hint of sweet masquerading as a
salty kindness in our veins,
our unique vintage of connectivity
Your hand to my lips raised,
grasped twice, by mine both,
slow lifting with stature, affection and respect,
kiss it and whisper just enough for
we two to hear...
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
even this seems weakly insufficient,
but care taken nowadays,
a new economy of words,
write less, think more, and
give up the truly deserved words only
as a mark of my fondness and respect
these come on no schedule,
often months in the making,
so forgive-me-not my unsweetened silences,
accept them with easy knowing that
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
the summer man wintered in discontent,
his journey now disrupted by forces exogenous,
stealing his vision, jailing him in between
walls of indecision, knocking down
his own twin towers,
but carelessly not making provision
to tell you well and often enough
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)*
Sept. 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
I arrive at the barbers
for my weekly, my usual,
and you are there,
sitting in my seat
crying. I lift you up,
cape and all,
take you round the
corner, where you tell
me you are sorry
but we have to go to
Brighton now, even
though it is 6pm on
a Friday and we won’t
be done until 2pm
tomorrow. Is it a ruse?
I think so, because
suddenly we are in a
part of London that
looks like Montmartre
(or it could be Richmond
masquerading as Venice)
and we meet a man
called Tricks who says
he’s the new chief now
because he knows the
location of all the bones.
And then there are
scanners at airports,
walk-in health centres,
families in North Carolina
with names like Kayleigh
and Shauna. And when
we are done meeting
them we are back, you
in the chair, glowing blue
under barbicide lights.
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 4:10 AM UTC
your words were so lovely
that i never once doubted them,
i couldn’t hear the emptiness
or read into the sugar coated lies
masquerading as sincere promises
i wrote them in cursive
and dotted the i’s with little hearts,
counting on the vows to hold weight
but when i finally tested them
by throwing your “forevers” into the ocean,
they did not sink to the bottom,
instead they floated right on the surface
your guarantees
were like funhouse mirrors,
i ran in one direction
thinking it was leading me
to where i needed to be,
but i came to a dead end,
trapped and broken hearted
with your voice echoing somewhere
“i cannot mend it”
i will not let my journal
turn into pitiful pages
filled with only your name
i will carry on,
bruised by your half-truths
and with eyes full of hope,
nevertheless
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
I hear the ocean make music
Like the rustling of autumn leaves
The sound of them gently rubbing
As she swept my heart like a wind
Singing every word she breathes
Upon a haystack full of needles
With no rhymes, nor pauses
Neither masquerading riddles
Simple and unassuming
She is a beautiful mess
My heart keeps swooning
But I couldn’t care less
Her flaws are fascinating
Like ribbons on her sleeves
Her charm is perfume
Her name is a spell
A graceful soul I see
Inside a feeble shell
To me she’s one and only
And that I can tell
My heartbeat thunders
And chased her nightmares
Like aquamarine
Calm and serene
A thousand, ten thousand words
Isn’t enough to create one phrase
But surely, I wrote a love song for two
Must I recalibrate, I can’t undo
iamthe_avatar ©2014
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
lately happiness seems to come and go
like a lover who bores easily
as i don't offer them enough to stay
while the depression always returns
like an abuser, it's fists made of ravage fire
masquerading loyalty and love i know is insincere
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
With a blistered heart
From unnumbered breaks,
A cloud of unshed tears
From untold betrayals,
I reenter the world
After an eternity or more
Of self imposed asylum
From a world of superficial bliss.
A world unchanged!
A cruel untended garden
Of deceptive beauty
And unkind thorny roses.
Lovelorn shadows,
Masquerading venomous claws
With beauteous flamboyance
And undesirable attraction.
Lethargic feelings,
Dousing my desires
With drowsing memoirs
Of countless emotional abuse,
Causing momentary spasms
In cerebral regions
Parading nocuous images
In the plenitude of projected beauty.
Scarred beyond immediate cure,
I recede from said world-
Too adverse for tender hearts
Back to hibernating moods
To nurse evergreen cuts
Cuts so deep, so lethal
Only the indolent strides of time
Can attempt to stitch!
Awaiting prophetic moments
Moments with mirage qualities
When in-love I can fall again
When a damsel I can trust again
When my heart can beat again
For one with pure intentions
Not putrefied by Hollywood mentors
*But virtuous in biblical ways*...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
Some say that it is unfair.
Unfair for the cosmic intoxication that I can feel.
Unfair for the ability to obliterate my surroundings
and sink into her exhilarating aura.
The power to visually experience instrumental weightlessness,
an exuberant eruption of colourful lush masquerading the sky,
the fixative pulse attached to her heart.
Floating above the universe and holding on to all the stars
as I escape in her smile.
Some say that it is unfair.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
I love you.
Since I saw the cracks in your bookshelf,
Your graceful hair intertwined with your shoulders,
The way you throw your head back and laugh.
If you are Juliet, I am death,
And I wonder how the snake felt,
Knowing he allowed Eve the apple.
I should hold my forked tongue,
For I know you would care for no,
Walking nervous breakdown.
Who could?
But this agonized black mass,
Writhing inside me, where my heart should be,
Barely living, barely dying.
Masquerading passion, good will.
I just need you to shoot it.
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 3:45 PM UTC
Wake up, bake it.
Give no ***** fake it.
Days spent, nothing.
Nights dreamt, loving.
Kids home, screams start.
MTV, Mario cart.
Big sis, no heart.
Big sis, love art.
Paints herself, always red.
Wishes herself, always dead.
Snapped wrists, knuckles bled.
Voices always fill her head.
Moms home, red eyed.
***** bottle, she always lied.
Names Jeff, **** you.
Names Ben, **** you too.
Daddy says, he wants to die.
Comes in my room, starts to cry.
He's been googling, clean suicide.
Asks the same question, who am I?
Brother screams, stamps his feet.
Sisters crazy, no nice and neat.
Go in my room, close the door.
Try not to breathe, lay on the floor.
Try not to cry, punch a door.
Try not to die, try not to soar.
Hand swollen, can't move.
Pack a bowl, for one not two.
Breathe in deep, let it sit
Listen to music, begin to slip.
Drink a bottle, finally faded.
Drop the mask, no masquerading.
Pass out, dreams are waiting.
Pass out, finally escaping.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
The dolls house was an escape exist masquerading as child's play,
Emerald curtains open for all the neighbours to see.
Gentle, delicate, Miss China lays the table rather than in bed,
Spreads the table cloth rather than her legs.
The tea set lies daintily on the table for when he comes home
When her mother plants him a kiss in the garden to grow.
And watching the car park on the fading lawn
She wonders if window panes feel happiness at all.
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
As the wind speed of mind increases, he loses weight
sees the clouds ethereal nearer and crowd in which
he too jostled like an imbecile, becoming far off dots
selfishness, greed, jealousy,pride, lust , avarice and violence
self-pity masquerading as love, all this still tie them down
some among them fornicate words, turn them in to ******
this happens for ages, but none has the power to stop the rot,
look at those mindless wonders that dance in **** we watch
in horror but pretend as if we are delighted, to keep the peers gleeful.
Don't you want a journey of your own through inner landscape
no more be a kite,begging for the mercy of those who pull the string
who fake ******* think something and pretend contrary to it, dupe.
"I am sky bound, levitate, a cloud heavy with sadness,still buoyant,
I would rain,when feel drained, assume the white cloak of purity.
I am the earth and fire,wind and water, limitlessness of the space"
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
What filth
from such a sweet girl
not sweet
never was
just too lazy to speak truths
apathy breeds misconceptions
those who care may not share
no, not an innocent doe
I'd hit that 'til the sun comes up
and some
and one
slam dunk in the face of foes
don't suppose
you expected much from the quiet kind of gal,
just a smile now and then
blush at the mention of unmentionables
*****
I'd make your skin crawl right off
tell some deep dark secrets
thoughts of the perverted
it's all a ****** rodeo
if red is the seductive, the loss of purity
I'm blood on sheets
forming words that should never be strung together
but forever and ever
masquerading as nonthreatening
begging for a chase
to hunt and be challenged
shown the world from the truest source of understanding.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 10:03 PM UTC
we could do anything
so we became *** addict junkies
college flunkies
working dead end jobs to survive
partying drinking always craving to be high
with sobriety comes anxiety
fear of failing
constantly called a freeloader of society
wasting away fighting to change
buried six feet deep in debts coffin
while starving on minimum wage
unable to find hope in the sky
depression strikes as the stars fall from the night sky
jaded
jaded feeling as the end of it all is nigh
blind masquerading bubble **** praising
mumble rap hailing
feeling trapped like mice about to die
members of a generation of wasted potential are you and I
fighting to arise building battles cries only to die when the bills arrive
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 6:55 AM UTC
sugar is bad for you
especially sugary thoughts
you cannot afford
like June is majestic
undulating ozone
from cumulus bones
in its flesh of light blue
masquerading airborne
around the skin
that breathes with beats
progressively arrhythmic
high from the feeling
but beware
for June hides its predators
beneath those waves
elating charm, its Siren song;
Because deadlines,
blood thirsty words
like “expiration”,“elapsing”,
and “due in”,
lurk with sharpened teeth
stalking the smallest of joy-fish
And all of this contrast
is masked with such skill
it remains underrated,
only frustrating to Juners,
for they know its extremes
and how smiles
cover anxiety
***
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC
in the shadows of retrospection, a somber truth unfolds, draped in the shroud of honesty. it's a reality i must face; it's better off this way.
you were already broken, a fractured soul wandering through the desolate corridors of existence. yet, you made a choice, a cruel decision, to shatter me as well. it's a harsh reality to digest, for nine months seemed too brief a span to bid farewell.
but now, looking back, those nine months appear as a mirage, a deceitful illusion. the person i thought i knew, the person i fell in love with, was nothing more than a phantom masquerading as reality.
our late-night rendezvous, the echoes of our laughter lost in the void, our spontaneous road trips to escape a mundane world and the culinary escapades that once ignited our senses - all of it, mere fragments of a fabricated tale.
our weekly staycations, where the world faded into insignificance, replaced by the universe we created, now reduced to the ashes of fiction. it dawns on me that it was all too good to be true.
in this realm of disillusionment, i find solace in the brutal honesty that it's better off this way. for sometimes, darkness unveils the most profound revelations, and in this darkness, i must find my light.
Sep 6, 2023
Sep 6, 2023 at 2:29 PM UTC