"matrices" poems
Dear Math,
I wrote this letter to let you know how I feel about you. The thing is much as you love me so much, we can never be an Item when all you do is torture my brain and break my heart.
You claim to be a linguist, yet you know none of my languages. You don't know Kiswahili neither do you know English and only speak Algebra and statistics...I loathe you for all you do is play on my mind with words like Sigma and Meu, factorial and co-factor.You claim you want to be the only one but still ask me to find your X without even telling me Y.Well, grow up and solve your own problems because I'm tired of solving them for you.Just walk out of my life forever and not temporarily like the dew. You have hurt me enough with razors of matrices, pinched me simultaneously and never asked me whether I believed in your ancient beliefs like those of Pythagoras or not. We were never meant to be. I found a new one, her name is literature and she loves me so much.I won't apologize for saying I hate you because It's unfair apologizing for saying the truth.
Yours with anger
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
The eternal tango of the maestro manifests itself in nigh infinite ways.
With the flick of the artist's brush, the stroke of the novelist’s pen or the chicken scratch of the scholar’s nib, legacies are etched, history is written and the world is shaped.
The astronomer, the craftsman and the physician all have one thing in common: Mastery.
Such pinnacles of skill have decades of their lives consumed, nay devoured in the pursuit of perfection, of greatness. Like grains of sand slowly falling into a furnace are the seconds of our lives, trickling, melting into puddles. But as sand melts, it forms shapes; therein lies the potential. Moldable puddles, colourless, devoid of naught but a clear medium.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
...You, dearest vagary, aplomb--were
brought to bear.
Vicissitude of memory which is the
dispersion of identity.
Of a time, and of a place--you, a
mellifluous bronze dusk poured upon
a meadow, a solitary immersion, a
moment that harnesses the whole of
the earth, as you are...dearest vagary.
You were afforded as by the citizenry
of the air, lent by an intercontinental
wind.
An undying eloquence featured for all
time--the swaying bud blown to bloom.
You...the beautification of possibility,
its matrices never left in want.
As in withstanding place the round is
made, and remade about you, the whole
of the earth.
Thus, you've no confounding words...
have you?
Thus, this sidelong expenditure that you may--
shall breach the earth you shall.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
The universe closes in on me
galaxies align
in matrices of light
This moment was never
meant to be
I'm a cloud
telling tales to the sky
a bit of wind
and I'll be gone
The moment slips through
my fingers
water into the well
while time
that mortal dragon
is readily slain
for there are no dragons
time is a myth
and this universe
bends backwards upon itself
eating its remains
and issuing forth
new life
in a fugue of renewal
again
and again.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Making manic impersonations
On a momentary scale
We ride on the echo of cymbals divine
Decanting data into philosophic wine
Perceptive perspective manifesting matrices
Unknown --
Uncontrollable, undeniable, imminent &
Haphazardly perfect;
The essence of our yesterdays & tomorrows
Etched, in passing, into the
Particulate framework
-- Momentarily --
& yet
-- Eternally --
Manifestations cloaked in the veil of time,
Laced with intentions self-concocted,
The tides exchange,
Endlessly blurring the line between
Creator and Created
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:44 AM UTC
.
The serpent around my eye
in perpetuity eating its tail.
A sigil to represent fluidity,
sheds its skin to no avail.
The Truths play around my head in loops eternal,
infinite possibilities of ***********
fractal gems cavorting in lustrous oceans,
that cleanse an hours disgrace.
Pan-Dimensional
and Omni-Directional
Truths are connecting.
Ouroboros, protector of the Tree of Life,
his apple is the gift of Knowledge.
Are those tempted weak and futile?
or hungry for the secrets of Cronos.
The fruit of Wisdom picked, and devoured,
in the garden quest for clarity.
And the serpent around my eye,
like a monocle allowing sight,
flows Truths into my mind,
reflecting matrices taken to flight.
© Pagan Paul (09/06/17)
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
Through the messy, dis-shaped contours
of pained reflections
the light — disarrayed, distorted —
make day of the endless night.
Colors and shapes manifest
in the once dark structure
through lighted emanations
projected forth by shadowed obstructions
Tricksters by nature
the archetypal projections dance
to the beat of an unheard drum.
Animated by the refracted light,
they
dance and dance
round and round
to the incessant rhythm.
Personified vessels
of noumenal glory
slowly guiding themselves
back home.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
Asleep in math class, not me, the matrices
Nobody cares about them it seems,
They lie, tucked in, drowsy between the textbook pages of more important chapters
But today, I finally saw the magic in them
The numbers dance
You can take two matrices, written in powdery chalk,
On the smooth, green ballroom floor on the wall
And watch, as if underwater, all is murmurs, all music
Comprehension of a different sort than paying attention
As the entries shift and multiply and add
Moving, sliding, locking into place like Tetris
And only some partners are compatible, and only under certain circumstances
2X3 and 3X5 meet in the middle, merge and mutate into 2X5
Two become one, each bringing their differences to the ball
New dimensions
Translating, the rows become columns and the whole constellation
Spins, twirling, kaleidoscope
Square matrices waltz
Others salsa and tango
Slowing, slowing, sinking into the final dip
Finding identity
1 0 0
0 1 0
0 0 1
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
I long to act, to lack
discernment, to take,
not earn it and not care
to explain, because
my bones are rigid
matrices, growing
brittle from empty
inertia. I wish I wrote
the way I used to before
professors slashed new
line breaks through
my stanzas for the sake
of aesthetics.
The voice my tongue
used to carry now resides
in my head, fragmented
but organized to the eye.
I can’t fix this.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
a facsimile of happiness
a continuous depression filled with interludes
of sunsets shimmering off loving eyes
neither logic nor morality warm beds
so we keel over, head long into midnight streets
groping for lips to kiss
ears to listen
hands to caress
******* to obliterate
for Newton's apple to drop
or Buddha's lotus to blossom
for Gabriel's sword to rip chests open
some are enslaved to absolute subjectivity
a tattered rag flapping on the wind
they are forever drowning drowning drowning
dooming any who dive in to save
they can not step back and observe the play
they are the play: the king, the jester, the soldier
the longing maiden, bitter spinstress, sword-smith's daughter
the prideful hero or stubborn villain
the country bumpkin chopping wood
the raving madman in the wilderness
oblivious to the back-drop or matrices
the paradigms of passion
the translucent chemical pulleys
the perpetual violations of history
******* them
even in the womb
the birth of an idea is the most wondrous phenomenon
the booming I AM forever resounding
it is a big-bang of metaphysical splendor
it is the unity of art-science-religion
the holy trinity of being
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
i wake up
to blinking messages
that i managed to ignore
because my lids were fastened shut.
i have a tendency to fall asleep
during conversations.
but i love tuesday mornings,
(this semester, at least)
because that extra hour
and a half
of sleep
keeps me going through the day.
i spent most of the morning
browsing through
missed connections
on craigslist.
i wonder,
maybe one of these are for me.
maybe i’ll find my soul mate.
or maybe i’ll get kidnapped.
three hour lectures
are the least favorite part of my tuesdays.
that
and math.
i don’t understand matrices.
but i’m too proud to ask for help.
i slept, though.
in art
because i couldn’t
seem to focus
on industrial design
or my
professor’s racist
and sexist remarks.
but at least the day’s over.
and i managed to get
home
right before it started
to rain.
law and order
is on.
maybe i want to be
a police officer.
just like
when i watch house,
i want to be a
doctor.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
Given my very own
matrices of philosophy
'pon the very topic of Authority,
why should it be
outlandish
for me to claim
to have an inkling
of understanding
as to how it is
that my Dog, perchance,
may feel?
For,
I am sure,
were I in her situation,
and indeed I could,
I would be thinking:
"I find myself disinclined to obey thee,
for, if thou art in such need of a leash,
then, likely, ye don't deserve me
to be thy loyal follower.
Though, Food-man,
were thee to lend me thy trust,
were thee to unleash me,
I may begin to respect thee
and therefore
lend thee some justified Authority
and thereby
may my loyal Allegiance be with thee."
Such teachers can animal companions be,
if only we are to allow ourselves to learn.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Your eyes are not portals to your soul
They are not some archaic metaphysical equation
Ancient mathematicians formulated to confound
They are pastures for nymphs
They are branches for fruit
They are laurels for poets
They rend me open like a flaming axe
They tie my stomach like knotted roots
I lose myself in their dusky wilderness
In them, I observe universes
Perpetually exploding and collapsing
Your pupils are black holes
At the center of galaxies
Balancing energy and force
Bending light inward
Like a sickle glistening high over hayfields
In them I hear songs
And sagas narrated by savage tongues
Of catastrophic floods and rebirth
Aryan myths about oneness
In them I see IVs dripping
Candles flickering behind carved pumpkins
I loiter in them like a pauper
With a styrofoam cup
Gazing on them is nearly intolerable
Like glaring at hydrogen bombs blinding
It is like Hebrews
Uttering the name of El- who cannot be named
El- who is above mortal matrices
The eye that never sleeps
The ear that always comprehends
The self that waivers like the sea
Eternity ends when you blink
Infernos extinguish when you sob
I tremble before them
As if they're holy relics
Decaying into perfection
Oh look upon me one last time
My love
Oh glance at me before
I petrify into pillars of salt
Look upon me
Before I transfigure into an amnestic god
Bearing light pure
Peer once more into my binary pulsars, frozen
In a fathomless abyss.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
Aquamarines
Hues unseen
Velvets and
Mercury retrograde
Projecting lines
Of constant course
Meanders and oxbows
Hinting at future and past
Dancing to songs
Unheard
An effigy for love
Unseen
A garden of tears
Unwrapping the present
Pistil and stamen
Awaiting
Pollinating
Ones and zeros
Bifurcating from binary to analog
Or amalgamating the two
Becoming one
Reprogramming matrices
With personal
Trinities
Everything looks neo
Through this lens
My purple iris contends
U2?
*Something in her eyes
Took 1000 years to get here*
Something in her heart
Something in her heart
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
Encyclopedic mainframes
Lap-top heads
Power-boxes for multitudinous outlets, plugs, chargers
Conduits manipulating
Fiber-optic arteries
Artificial energy
ZAP
Pale lights
Computers aglow in dark cloistered bedrooms
Powered pacemakers stalling at microwaves
Electrocuted blood - cookied fantasies
Ads proclaiming everything free!
Pharmaceutical elixirs for limpness, lumpiness, loneliness
Snake-oil for suffering
Nigerian kings, Syrian refugees
*********** clever memes, whimsical gifs, shocking news, witty banter
Socio-politic-religous-diatribes
Spewing on every thread
Existential *****
Aroma-less cuisines
Vacuumed vacations
Youtubed communions
Suicide selfies.
Crucifixdrones - pedolandia
Jdate.POF.AshleyMadison.Match. Eharmony.SpeedDate.OKcupid
CG. Missed encounters...
Serial killers,
Pixalated ******* vein-throbbed **** shots, cardboard gloryholes
Instagramed I
Inviolate I
Internet I
I I I
No sweaty arm pits, cottage cheese, gray nose hairs or belly fat
Computer [ScreenShot]
While behind, posters hang: The Doors, Tupac, NIN, The Smiths, Hendrix, Joy Division, Nirvana
HandshapedHeart.
2D souls
Text-dating
144 word manifestos
#revolutions
Archetype emoticons
Doodled centaurs
Caged in matrices
Transcendental notes
Need a hit
Of internet smack
A line, a pinch, a drag
A like, a comment, a kudos
A reply, a thumbs up, a share, a poke
One measly view
Baby, come on, give me a fix
Just one
Notification: ding-beep-buzzzz
I want to dissolve like alka-seltzer in tap water
Otherwise I'm a used-up toothpaste tube
Sitting in a dank medicine cabinet
If not, I am
A stick-figure created from matches
Drowning in a drum of gasoline
Not buried beneath pregnant soil
No. dumped into blue recycling bins.
[Ctrl +Alt+Delete]
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC
Every move calculated. Im trying to know.
My math is wrong, or a miscalculation has made another variable.
Another story, another stitch in the tapestry
I can't find the answer. Though I was wondering if I was on the right lead.
The dead end is deafening.
I can only watch as the math is slotted to run.
The production of an answer
A show, a result, of this long division, this diversion.
Angles are perfectly fitted to one another,
But the math and figures don't add up.
What puzzle have i been working with?
What pieces are missing?
Have i always seen a solution, just never attempted to test...
This hypothesis, to seek truth?
Trying the experiment, the observations are clear.
I am not to be here.
Am I the imaginary? The rational?
Can it be equal? Can it be trivial?
Im trying yet again.
How can one plus one be two when in life its three?
Where and when am i me?
Have i fallen down this power of 2 factor tree?
Or am i fractals free?
This is a set of 3.
How about this matrix?
And this issue of multiplicity, these additional matrices?
On the axis, on this graph can you tell me?
My mind is the scatter plot. The images and notes...
Are points, but no correlation.
This conclusion, this test,
I wish i could rest, and divide by Zero.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
No saben.
¡Perdonadlos!
No saben lo que han hecho,
lo que hacen,
por qué matan,
por qué hieren las piedras,
masacran los paisajes...
No saben.
No lo saben...
No saben por qué mueren.
Se nutren,
se han nutrido
de hediondas imposturas,
de cancerosos miasmas,
de vocablos sin pulpa,
sin carozo,
sin jugo,
de negras reses de humo,
de canciones en pasta,
de pasionales sombras con voces de ventrílocuo.
Viven
entre lo fétido,
una inquietud de orzuelo,
de vejiga pletórica,
de urticaria florida que cultiva el ayuno,
el sudor estancado,
la iniquidad encinta.
No creen.
No creen en nada
más que en el moco hervido.
en el ideal,
chirriante,
de las aplanadoras,
en las agrias arcadas
que atormentan al éter,
en todas las mentiras
que engendran las matrices de plomo derretido
el papel embobado
y en bobina.
Son blandos,
son de sebo,
de corrompido sebo triturado
por engranajes sádicos,
por ruidos asesinos,
por cuanto escupitajo se esconde en el anónimo,
para hundirles sus uñas de raíces cuadradas
y dotarlos de un alma de trapo de cocina.
Sólo piensan en cifras, en fórmulas, en pesos,
en sacarle provecho hasta a sus excrementos.
Escupen las veredas,
escupen los tranvías,
para eludir las horas
y demostrar que existen.
No pueden rebelarse.
Los empuja la inercia,
el terror,
el engaño,
las plumas sobornadas,
los consorcios sin **** que ha parido la usura
y que nunca se sacian de fabricar cadáveres.
Se niegan al coloquio del agua con las piedras.
Ignoran el misterio del gusano,
del aire.
Ven las nubes,
la arena,
y no caen de rodillas.
No quedan deslumbrados por vivir entre venas.
Sólo buscan la dicha en las suelas de goma.
Si se acercan a un árbol no es más que para mearlo.
Son capaces de todo con tal de no escucharse,
con tal de no estar solos.
¿Cómo,
cómo sabrían
lo que han hecho,
lo que hacen?
¿Algo tiene de extraño
que deserten del asco,
de la hiel,
del cansancio?
Sólo puede esperarse
que defiendan el plomo,
que mueran por el guano,
que cumplan la proeza
de arrasar lo que encuentren y exterminarlo todo,
para que el hambre extienda sus tapices de esparto
y desate su bolsa ahíta de calambres.
Son ferozmente crueles.
Son ferozmente estúpidos...
pero son inocentes.
¡Hay que compadecerlos!
838
Give me your youth, feed me your time
You've come to me first, but now you are mine
Feed me your story, give me your mind
Is there any more that you'd like me to find?
Now get in line, can you see all the eyes?
They're only expecting the best of your lies
Why make it work, when you can just go?
When red and blue mix, I don't like it so
Loved ones who care? Friends who would stay?
Whatever, it's not like you need them anyway
Just play with me some more, get into me deeper
I am after all, your only way to a keeper
Look at the lot of them, so happy and proud
You should march along, no dissent allowed
Matrices and columns is all that I know
Now just you wait for the ****** of my show
All of them are hooked, changing as they go
This perverted gallery soon is all they know
You think this might be bad, but it's just a taste
A mind is a beautiful thing to carelessly waste
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
Maybe we are full of ghosts
And therefore, nothing, but
Data
Patterns in brackets and matrices of Proof
buried in the dunes of our own topography
Where lies
Everything
That gives us shape.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
your voice is still echoing in my head
and through my walls; entire blocks
drearily sinking deeper into the night
as i shrink into my corner of this block.
i swear i heard you singing that song
that you'd been whispering in my ears
and that i've been humming; i don't know
the words to the music constantly in my head.
* i know the words to the music
that i'm making up as i go along.
they're simple in their meter
and matrices that they're filling in.*
i'd written you a love song, but you're gone
and when i see you, i don't think the words
that i'd spoken to you over the phone;
i think in the stylings of love that'd been forgotten.
it seems like they linger through to the dawn,
and they hang on every whisper that i still hear.
they hang around, never quite leaving here.
they're hanging on, and they're still so clear.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 2:46 AM UTC
This is it:
it’s the slow-fast conversion of my brain matrices in scaffold supporting
the connection between “good” and the scent of your sweat
the swift relay from my skin through my mind back to nerves
ending in your arms; the parts of me you colour rose
it’s the speed variation in the pump of your hips; bone connects bone
shock connects shock, spark connects spark, connects and cascades
the viscous strokes of my hands against your back as you, I
it’s sighing, strikingly loud
it’s enveloping the sound of you
stick and stuck, staring out loud, divine
measures taken to absorb the churning warmth of you
in and out: breathing and stroke
the wire compilation of your hair beneath my fingers
it’s
glazing your gaze until you’ve started falling forward to
capture my sighs/breaths/moans/cries inside your own
vehicle; it’s slow seconds scraping my thoughts while you crawl
the strong strokes you press into my memory
the cusses that slither slickly out my mouth to meet your ears, relay to your
nerves
it’s the excess breath I waste on passing my messages on to you
the feedback loop, in and out
the rhythmic species we become
the invisible lines we draw, remaining afterward for too little time
making love to the sight of you, the sounds of the stereo background
loosening your tension, uncoiling your starched landscapes
the magic of being ethereal in a concrete room
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
With closed eyes, I inwardly spy on the enormously arbitrary stockpile.
Her picture drifts by, escorted by a brisk convoy of memory -
those strikingly timeworn matrices of hoary but lasting stories
from her youth, then from the wrong side of forty…
and now about the beginning of wrinkles on her rickety little fingers –
feeble and gentle.
There she is…smiling unconditionally at me, not concerned with my status or money,
or, for that matter, my other silly intimacies that keep waxing and waning like an isochronal scream.
With all her warmth and affection – unqualified and plenary
she waits at the doorway…across time…ever-ready to accept me
for whatever I was, am and may continue to become.
While I have ignorantly swerved this way and the other
erring, straying, scouring the world over, she has been invariably there -
my unabridged blessing, my true well-wisher.
My mother, any mother –
The best girl-friend ever.
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 3:33 PM UTC