"materialise" poems
i just lamented a more complex version of this; i just cannot believe we denote the same thing in order to share an understanding of the same by denoting as such, but when acting we feel so differently about it; imagine the noun iran in the mouth of an american, then picture the verbs subsequent... then imagine the noun america in the mouth of an iranian, then picture the verbs subsequent: words hold as much emotion as actions discard, even though the actions are worded, and the words are almost imaginary when concerned with what iraq was when given belshazzar.
i wonder if as many people would **** or die
for the noun apple, as they do for allah -
say the noun apple... apple apple apple long enough...
will you get apple juice? well no, so if you keep on saying
the noun allah allah... will that thing materialise?
the imaginary atheistic sense
of the word allah, is that humanity
turned the noun allah into a verb
of its own chosing due to man's free will,
i.e., say allah casually over coffee,
now say allah in jihad clothing...
the same noun among diverse verbs...
might as well invent a new grammatical
category of nouns and verbs mingling...
nouverbs... what noun invokes what action,
consolidated in what are excesses of adjectives,
given the quality of a life lived -
the man who casually said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in denmark managed to integrate
into danish society and start up a newspaper...
the man in syria who "casually" said the noun allah
in a coffee shop in syria didn't manage the former...
because his orientation of the noun
changed the path of the sequence of nouns / beheaded nuns,
since the cutting of the word verb,
managed to craft non-verbum-ergo-actio.
in defence of avoiding one’s own mortality,
one speaks against one’s own death,
thus one speaks with the enemy of the people
one shares a life with, for a fake chance of the feeling of prolonging.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
the dead re-materialise by the side of the roadside
they are visible as though seen through a spotlight
it is a brutally interrogative light
that magnifies these corpses
makes them resemble the fragments
of suicidal terracotta pots
it magnifies them as symbolic equivalents
of their real image
its beam dazzles broken glass on the pavement
the breakage an impersonation of their cataclysm
causing the edges of seeing to hurt
and hearing to submerge itself
in a turquoise blue aquarium in fear
as speech sounds a primitive retreat
in its atavistic echoes of inveterate distraction
there is a disorder of blood stains on the road
where all emotional impulse is volatilised
causing a wild distillation of programmed anxiety
which in a different vocabulary becomes
a figment of somebody else's imagination
causing a sinister, stuporous, stagnancy of sound
in palpitations, dropped heartbeats, nausea, headaches
and a foul change in bowel function
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
Another lone celebration meal
another year of down at heel
another draught of loneliness
another night without caress
another year at least until
another life can bloom in full
another year of wondering if
another hoop will materialise
another year of wondering why
another year has been let go by
another year to question whether
another year will bring me pleasure
Cynthia Pauline Jones 24/3/2013
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
There are poems lingering
in the pit of my stomach,
syllables hidden in the
depths of the bags under
my eyes,
sonnets cowering in dried out
veins
and haikus dissolving, drowning
in my arteries
at the pale midnight hours
that no paper
could ever materialise.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
I
Pitch black dark, full of wonder
I step outside to leave warm light
The cold air stings my city skin
Silence permeates the night.
In the countryside I stay
Where stars shine their brightest
I look up, full of expectation
It's not fulfilled, not the slightest.
I will not lie, I did see stars
But it was underwhelming, I thought.
6 hours drive away from home
It was all for nought!
In that single moment I aged many years.
I was Disappointed.
Discouraged.
Disheartened.
I went back inside
I was Defeated.
II
Next night, just as black,
just as cold, just as still
I leave the light and creep outside
The dark gives quite a thrill.
I can barely see but I still walk
Soon my eyes adjust
Shadows, treelines, unlit pathways
With time, become robust.
And then I see them.
Stars like tiny pinpricks, materialise
Thousands upon thousands appear
I stand and watch as they arrive
Frozen in awe, not fear.
Yesterday
I was wrong.
I was impatient.
I was naive.
And that's ok.
In that single moment, I aged many more years.
I wasn't Disappointed.
Discouraged.
Disheartened.
I went back inside.
I had Discovered.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 12:04 PM UTC
Within walls the humdrum echoes
footsteps magnify into monsters
so do journeys untaken, unplanned.
Step by step conquest is mastered
in real motion forward
mountains climbed
distances measured with hard muscle
counted in steps -one by one.
Nothing impossible
to the journeyman
No yardsticks to measure success
even God is a step closer.
Meditate dreams in sequence
until nirvana nears
at the journeys end
and reincarnations materialise
step by step.
Walking on the wild side
lengthens the shadows of darkness
until we fail to see the light
that will lead us back to the beginning
to the first step from where we started.
Step by step
in rhythm with the heartbeat
we all work through life
and onwards into eternity.
Author Notes
Step by Step. ' He who wants to walk the whole world must take his first step'
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
Exert life than a void pray,
Gone my obey for: a lied rose,
Under the deep-deep sky, may the sea beneath,
Felt all the existence of died prose.
Identity of expiring beyond, an illusion of soon,
Or the city lights, may the lights of so moon.
And eyes oh eyes of my, heed existence,
Who humane instincts to materialise; to disobey chosen persistence.
I stood the defeat ; as vanished as die,
All hopes, legacy, ideas meaningless; heard I,
I stood by god, to hail nothingness and death,
Thence I tasted sour on the soliloquy of celebrated Macbeth.
For when he says; god is dead,
Its innocence absurd that we are his murderer,
A cynic, anti-foundationalism, epistemic to crave for more and more, oh i read,
For all my beliefs came to bright blur.
Today, when I ask a theory of tree makes sound or not when fallen alone,
Exculpate not, for I myself flown in the most questionable known.
Today, when I ask a theory of Sisyphus as a metaphor on existentialism,
Exculpate not, for I know more than seven colors of old prism.
Learner, me oh my, how I may counter not,
Nihilist not I, neither theory I ever caught.
I choose to choose, to see I see,
So; next when we revel, keep it over a beautiful night of spree.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 5:41 AM UTC
after you drink, enough as i have, you get the strangest
recipes enter your mind...
and you're not as lazy a marijuana smoker
either... you really start imagining things,
that aren't, or shouldn't be there, but later materialise,
and are actually there.
like tonight,
**** me... getting drunk can really give
you the munchies...
i was like: it can't be as simple as crisps
from a packet... it can't be ready made, there,
at an arm's reach... so it began:
bacon,
cherry tomatoes...
garlic paste...
crème fraîche!
parsley to garnish!
pickled chilies!
turmeric!
kashmiri chili powder!
processed cheese! (laughing cow type)...
i swear i missed something...
oh yeah... brassica juncea - or mustard greens,
something a bit like lettuce...
but if packaged, also includes red cabbage snippets...
plus arugula (eruca sativa), also a plant / rocket...
and the carbohydrate canvas to serve it on?
a tortilla!
i swear, i should either stop drinking,
or stop drinking up recipes, when drunk...
either that, or what i'm tasting, when drunk,
tastes really good, or that... well... if someone sober
would dare to eat what i conjure up drunk, would simply puke...
don't know, i conjure this recipe out of my ***
and it stays down... it's not like i'm frying a dog's ****
all of a sudden...
if it stays down, and you get to digest it?
it can only be as bad as it sounds, with you not having
****** around with the stated ingredients, to whatever palette
of proportion that your palette's suited to entertain.
don't know, i swear no marijuana smoker would
go as far as to invent something like this...
you drink... you do get hungry...
and then you experiment,
for some ****** reason that no one seems to be able to explain.
i get right into cooking something up,
primarily because when doing chemistry
at university, the most enjoyable chapter was organic chemistry...
and that was like cooking...
i can't say i'm boasting... i don't know if a sober person
would find this recipe appealing...
but having made it drunk, i'm pretty sure
another drunk would eat it and conclude the same as i:
****** genius... never take me to a kebab takeway... ever again!
oh gee me... clap clap.
by now i might as well insinuate that i'm faking
sniffing lines of ******* by the buzz of positivity i'm feeling.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 8:12 PM UTC
Growing up ugly, alternately fat and thin
eating scars for breakfast and time for tea
having almost climbed out of a buried bin
only for it to be upended & held in place with
1939's world atlas; the one that got europe all wrong
& like me, was designed with accuracy in mind
Personable birds of prey prodded, persuaded
and set free the mean old biped growing inside
beach ***** jolly popped and sandcastles raided
just to see the looks on hope & holyglow faces
their defeat in optimism: my triumph as ****
full circle towards schematic self-sabotage
Once again i am bitter drunk and to be wed
we improvised trite vows and cut ourselves
spare keys for access to one another's sickbeds
In attendance: maternal ghosts and retired reapers
hurting with knowledge & witholding screams
Liver-spotted harbingers of age and all its mistakes
Older now than I ever thought was likely:
refuse to fight against the alarms of everything
as everything and everything change around me
But there are too many different colours of skin
and i never was a tolerant, I was always just witch
Now finally alone enough to weigh my empty chairs
Surprising, that when black hands materialise
my own teeth flash & spit through septic spells
make even him blink, in his absence of eyes
For in his face is a nothing that stills me
It's the same nothing that i've rotted with
All my sorry life i'd settled this way, instead of that
To ask for one more would be greedy, wouldn't it?
Now it feels like I've begged before, i'll beg again
I think when he kisses me it will be over
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
Out beyond the distant freeway
Way beyond the wave lapped shore,
Far across the ocean, green….
You people fly to my back door.
Penetrating shrouds of weather
To slice through storms which wrack the sea,
Across those deserts dry and windblown
You lot send your thoughts to me.
From tenements in bleak Chicago,
Harbour side from old Hong Kong,
Across the ancient steps of Naples
Expression from thy pen doth throng.
Through the moonlight, softly filtered,
Past the beastly glare of dawn
Far across this tortured planet
Screeds of poetry, here, are borne.
Howling, gasping, dancing laughter,
Heartfelt words of loss so clear,
Sadness in great love’s demise…
Then anger, jealousy and fear.
Spontaneously across the spectrum
To materialise fantastically….
An embellishment of manuscript
To heights which brim an ecstasy.
Marshalg
Pukehana Paradise
29 November 2014
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
Like so many of us, surrounded by binaries and cold concrete,
he finds it hard to say what he feels, and I found it hard
to understand, for a while, that he loved me just as I did him,
when he never vocalised his feelings completely, and I did.
It took me some time to realise he shows them instead, and maybe
that is all the more eloquent than anything I could ever
materialise on a piece of paper filled with smeared ink.
His love manifests itself in lingering gazes and the lightest touch,
in private smiles and the softening of his eyes when I laugh.
Like a child resorts to pointing at things they cannot name,
he ends up holding close what he cannot verbalise he needs.
- “You make me happy,” I tell him. He looks vulnerable and smiles. c.s.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 9:17 AM UTC
Egg cell boy was
nurtured in a
test tube home.
What he was rested
on shelf after shelf,
a museum to himself.
Hawk eye dreams
stayed stale in a thick rimmed
case of glass and class,
though he never
saw what was in
front of him:
a blind love that
would not materialise
into anything but,
time wasted under sheet and cover,
and some lies to warm that
comic book heart of yours.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
Neutrons, protons and electrons compose
The entirety of atoms pervading The All,
Forming bewildering matter, objects and substances,
Ranging from dust to stars, planets, galaxies,
Superclusters, organisms, oxygen and water,
Living creatures.
Neutrons and protons in turn made of quarks,
Elementary particles, indivisible, positively charged.
Deprived of a structure of their own they strongly interact,
To create one and many zillion more.
Never alone always bound
In twos and threes, sparkling composites,
Hadrons at the heart of atomic nuclei.
Quarks making us.
While electrons, together with muons and taus
Only heavier but identical, are leptons,
The most common elementary particles in our world
Offer atoms their chemical properties.
Negatively charged, indivisible, smaller there are none.
Deprived of a structure of their own they weakly interact,
Frantically moving subject to electromagnetic fields.
Leptons making us.
Quarks and Leptons in conclusion
Minuscule nature of our essence shared
With that of all that exists. No wonder,
Everything in dualism persists.
Seeking harmonic balance and elegance,
A cosmos of particles interacting in countless manners
To materialise the entirety of energy in the Universe,
Shaping it with imagination and creativity.
As stars make gold, pressurised carbon diamonds,
Thirty trillion cells a human being, a human being a thought.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 3:51 AM UTC
*"To write", she wrote.
She needed it more than ever;
The letters ordered on paper,
Falling neatly in a way that
Expelled and deciphered it all at once.
She longed for the clarity;
For the void that would materialise
Once the mind was cleansed.
She struggled to grip
even a syllable of substance,
to fling down in a hail of ink.
There weren't words.
None.
No line of text alone could capture
this bombardment of her senses.
Only an act would suffice.
Yet, here and now,
She is without a stage.*
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC
Am I just a figment of your information
Rolling round your head
Until you see me again.
So tell me
Am I in your head?
When I don't materialise,
Does another me fill
The space between your ears?
Has she made a home inside your head
Does she sit at the vanity mirror of your soul
Remembering your every memory with me
Examining every moment of your contact with me
For you?
Does she see
How you feel
Does she clear the clutter on the drawer top
And open the drawers of your mind
To see what you're thinking.
Do you feel
Like she feels
Exactly the way you feel
Does she act out the fantasies
You dream of having with me
Conversations that time cuts out
Tension that can bend hands
Behind backs
Does she kiss you
Like you want me to
But I can't
Because time is always burning
Soon all we'll be left with is ash
Does she tell you how I feel?
Does she crawl into your innermost thoughts,
Turning rationality on its head
Like you do?
Like you do to me?
Like you do?
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
Slave to society, slave to myself,
choking in this nightmare, chasing for wealth,
losing my health, here to pretend,
every pence that I earn I feel less content.
I never got back the message in the bottle that I sent,
I failed to understand, but I still spit as long as I stand,
I shut myself on the wrong side of the fence,
I used to be in attack, now stuck in defence.
Dusty, post-apocalyptic state of anxiety,
sold myself to the big dream of society,
can I get my freedom back, your majesty?
Wait another year mate, keep planning it!
Don't feel part of the world, I'm stuck between these bricks,
try to cheer the **** up mate, but the gray matter sticks,
have a deep dive inside myself while I smoke my fix,
Thank god I got numbers - Yeah, 666.
Travelling ****** In a world of promises,
ice in my bones, I'm ****** catatonic,
keeping it dope, fast thinking, fotonic,
always going down a slope, falling, chaotic.
Plan for your day, engineer, atchitect,
only start being yourself after the sunset,
materialise something new from a concept,
always slip down when I'm getting to the last step.
Kids are grown ups before grown ups realise they're past,
it takes time to have a plan and time goes too fast,
my past is repetitive, my future doesn't last,
I'ma be ****** up a little before being just dust.
No way to adjust, you can only have the best blast,
embrace your day, it's a must,
there is time for most things but no time for rest.
In the timeframe given always try to do your best.
Embrace your soul before it's covered in rust,
everyone's got one, so try to find your craft,
if you have one more hour, nothing more to ask,
Spend every single ******* day like it's your last.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
Words have lost their meaning over time
The more the same phrases are used
Over and over and over again
The less their context matters
Like staring at a word for too long
It becomes nothing
The more we throw meaningful sentiments
Into a grammatical machine
Moulding them into a form
Most befitting
The more inevitable
Their fate
As feed for the fatuous void.
But what if words
Had no meaning in the first place?
Their context absurd
Relative to our personal emotions
We communicate
In perceptions
Condensed down
Into a finite set of sounds and symbols
How strange
We are all subject to this
It is inescapable
Words have our truths caged
Indefinitely.
I could say everything many romantics have already put into words
But that would be lazy and impertinent
Their semantics have dissolved
Worn from view
No matter how many voices
Echo what was once
A truth in history.
For my love, I would cast aside all language
For my soul is constantly dancing to a song
Of melodious candour
My mind wanders
Into his room
So warm and musty
And there
I am held
All at once
Words escape me
No
I escape words.
It is impossible
For you
To comprehend the way you make my heart move
Whenever I am in your company
But it is there
It exists
It is truth
I pray
You feel it too
Because then these phrases
I’ve strung together
Needn’t be spoken.
Poetry lives
To materialise our senses
Here is mine
So let us remove the shackles of our language, my love
And dive naked
Liberated
Into a world
Where only pure intuition resides.
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 5:56 AM UTC
i'd pretend to slit someone's throat and say the words: i'm only kidding, i'd hate to be good and be homeless... play along... you'll get your life, and i'll get a roof over my head... wouldn't you play the same chess out of desperation and a new school placement? at least in prison there's a righteous hierarchy of what's absolved... on the street we're just Hindus without cows in western society... i rather discuss euthanasia in the context of liberal Switzerland and sadistic England.
the Joker at sunrise:
if they sent me to prison...
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha he he he...
they'd be sending me to Butlins!
sometimes phonetic encoding
doesn't do justice to what's lived
and how it's expressed,
i mean the part where sounds
encoded into words that later
materialise into ideas
are forks in the road and therefore fakes
of capitalistic futurism where
money was replaced by pebbles.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC
i am in a constant state of grief
for a past i cannot get back to
for a future that will never arrive
for moments that have faded
for promises stuck in time.
i am in a perpetual state of longing
for a past that won't return
for a future that will never materialise
for memories that have hidden
for hopes that turned into lies.
i am in a permanent state of desire
for a past that shows no mercy
for a future that will never be realised
for happiness that has wandered
for dreams that have lain to die.
Oct 28, 2021
Oct 28, 2021 at 2:44 PM UTC
We sealed our fate
when our eyes met each other's;
When I saw you
I envisioned every possible future
about to materialise into reality's present.
We sealed our acquaintance
with the firm shake of a hand,
looking forward to working with you
was all the pleasure I anticipated.
We sealed our friendship
with a hug;
We shared many thoughts,
we valued each little insight we had.
We shared some laughs,
exchanged smiles.
See, relationships prove to be
the bedrock of civilisation
and the connections between us
felt like kingdoms of galaxies
under our command
I envisioned every single possibility with you.
Yet, I cannot see through the next step
When we shall seal our fate with a kiss,
and journey through the storms of life
together
With you by my side.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
ever heard that old chestnut:
all men are born equal -
hmm?
that won't work, prior to the crucified
god of love, there was a god of jealousy,
naturally theological Darwinism would
provide with a god of apathy -
with subsequent consequences
as paradoxical: apathy never bred so
much pathology as experienced
by the young -
that famous French secular maxim hid jealousy
inside itself - to make uniform suggestion
where every man ran the Olympic 100 metres
at the same finishing time -
secular statements breed diabolical beliefs
one way or the other -
as that other chestnut: i don't agree with what
you say, but i'll defend your right to say it...
that's so last summer by my count of current
affairs... no one will defend your right to say it
because so few people want to experience
the full rainbow of emotion, better off with
emoticons... feed the apathy...
just feed it, you'll only end up caged in some
pathology or other: either your thinking
will not materialise into pathological behaviour
(an extension of being), or it will materialise into
pathology per se - i.e.: not expressed, i.e.
inhibited; any dumb clown can juggle two *****
and the third is stashed in the Albert Hall.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
Dear poetry,
You are still here aren't you
Why haven't you left me?
When I only ever wrote you gloomy,
Only so I feel better expressing myself to anyone who reads it
And discards it in their short term memory, left abandoned to be forgotten,
Why haven't you left me?
You're only there to display my grieves to those
Who look at you one second and look at someone else the other
Why haven't you left me?
When I rant on you, play with words on your belly to make an impact and point to the world
That my world isn't a happy place, that I am the biggest fault in my world
And you are the support which obscures all my faults
As they only see the calligraphy of words and mosaics I make out of you. They all seek beauty and heart touching sentences out of you and pluck them out like with their silly fingers and adore them. Cause why does anyone want to know about gloom? There is plenty in their world I bet.
While you over there materialise yourself for me and only me, open yourself to any other person who passes by and close down when they are done plucking out your beauty.
Why oh why, after all this are you with me?
Maybe because I have tied you to me
Maybe because I don't want you to leave.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
I'm more than alright
Good and going
Remembered your touch just once
Maybe a few times
Maybe more than often
Or maybe in every heartbeat.
So much it hurt painfully
But when you've lost purpose
Everything becomes bearable.
Still stare at the mirror
Imaging your dear reflection behind my own
Walk right on in and I'm smiling
Sudden pulsating turnaround
And it's not you there - just empty space.
But when no reflection seems beautiful enough
Everything becomes bearable.
So I continue staring into empty space
At the plain coffee table, all alone
Gorgeous eyes materialise before mine
And a reassuring smile
Whispers 'Told you I'd be back.'
Instinctive fingertips reaching out
Caress the cheek like I once used to
But thin air is all it is
Daydream is all it is
Fooling visions and wishes
Illusionary, yet so pretty
You're there but you're really not.
But when any exisiting thing
Feels fake at the touch
Everything becomes bearable.
Still wonder about you in the afterlife
How your ghost keeps coming back
Perhaps you're in a better place now
Perhaps you're not even real anymore.
But when every coming day
Passes by like a movie
Everything becomes bearable.
Crying to sleep each night
Clutching tight old t-shirts and frames
What went has gone for good
But the past doesn't go away.
Memories and nostalgia
Nauseating yet addicting
Adrenaline running high
Then floods back down with regrets
But when you've begun counting breaths
Everything becomes bearable.
They think I've gone crazy
Smiling at what doesn't seem funny
Addicted to what isn't very pleasant
Talking to who doesn't really exist
And it doesn't **** you
It takes you.
But when opinions stop counting
No tear comes a surprise.
When pain isn't a word in your dictionary
Everything becomes bearable.
Wasting away at tearfuls
Vapourising at the flick of each bottle
It isn't pain that has displaced my roots
It's just you.
But when sweet and bitter taste the same
Everything becomes bearable.
When you'd rather pause than see another day
Everything becomes bearable.
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
Breathe in quickly
Gather more oxygen
To encourage the thought
Widen the eyes
To take it all in
Keep still
Do not talk
Or dare interrupt the moment
But give the thought space
To materialise
And then
Suddenly
There it is
Truth
Apparent
Present
Realised
Understood
Adrenaline surges
Joy flows
And there is peace with oneself
Connection to the universe
A new dawn has broken
Rich with possibilities
Changing everything
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
Our local Cuckoo never showed up this year
- lost or dead on its migration (we will never know)
The upside is other species of bird will have been free from the Cuckoos chick taking over their nest. But still I missed the calling of the Cuckoo.
The Sea Eagles have nested again, what a boon to our small Island. The Mountain Hares would disagree, the eagles feed on them.
I guess there must be an upside and downside in all of nature, and even the downside helps the upside to materialise. Strange this passing of the seasons and our witness to all its phenomenon. Three score years and ten, and then gone to some other place, lost or dead, gone on our final migration.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC