"matterless" poems - Hello Poetry

Observation. the act. a frenetic rat turning the cheese around. Twisted little turning fingers. a scientist looks at two peas in a pod, and deigns to his ******* child. His spectacles reflect the world and classify to a faulty eye. As fingers manipulate the strings; connected to divinity or the prison-within-ity? A man long flown towards freedom... hanging high from the telephone line... Triumphant introspection; chains inwardly strewn; a thrall to the matterless dark. A slave to the unreal Master; now free to plot against his enemies, he curses the baker’s wife. Turning the cheese around the rat sniffs and inspects with an eye for ratio, a life applied ambitiously, to the Holy cheese and gold trophies. A ticket to the image of love But how will he trust her fidelity? The mail-order bride, she cries.

0

Jan 16, 2015

Jan 16, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC

dant00ine

Gentleman

Observation. the act. a frenetic rat turning the cheese around. Twisted little turning fingers. a scientist looks at two peas in a pod, and deigns to his ******* child. His spectacles reflect the world and classify to a faulty eye. As fingers manipulate the strings; connected to divinity or the prison-within-ity? A man long flown towards freedom... hanging high from the telephone line... Triumphant introspection; chains inwardly strewn; a thrall to the matterless dark. A slave to the unreal Master; now free to plot against his enemies, he curses the baker’s wife. Turning the cheese around the rat sniffs and inspects with an eye for ratio, a life applied ambitiously, to the Holy cheese and gold trophies. A ticket to the image of love But how will he trust her fidelity? The mail-order bride, she cries.

26

Dear... This haphazard poem was written solely for you Matterless, what you came garbed in Fever elicited, passion anew You’ve graced me, the repetition of ‘could-have-been’ I loved the way you speak Of knowledge and triumph And I, bumbling and meek Tirelessly I sought and now still seek Your council, your court For my amusement, for my sport Conversing over a poisoned well I listen in genuine Raise my voice Sing with my friends amongst the din Higher on the pillar, you I hoist Pure skin my well intentioned hands mar Clumsily, I lean into a similar heart To discuss life and literature, fantasies these hands take too far How eloquent the silk you weave, which you impart Which inveigles and entices, cajole us into the city On pale page, the street lamps and dim moon, art Palpitations and liquor test the pity Of light and fire I cannot help but explore your shapely form And yet, without bar Across miasma, my guide is a cute little hand Solitude, the pulsations do doggedly solicit I just want to be close, you grant this Bewitched by the creamy satin of pale skin Distantly, warmly, I gaze in those God-given sculptures Of the richest green and azure hues, bespeak feminine Engaged in the other’s stare, two drunken apers The night, black as sin, The mould of outcome of we are the shapers And I shape regret that rises with the sun You come back vividly and lucidly Distant and opposite, worlds across, you from me A nondescript ghost in the corner Who speaks so placidly I remember with regret I remember with exultation I’ve ruined our relationship Our relationship topical felicitation I haven’t had time to apologize I haven’t had enough time with you If I ever see you again I’d mend everything I’d discover the girl behind the name And cleanse the projection askew. Love, Me Dear... .

0

Sep 10, 2013

Sep 10, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC

jp-goss

A Poem for---

Dear... This haphazard poem was written solely for you Matterless, what you came garbed in Fever elicited, passion anew You’ve graced me, the repetition of ‘could-have-been’ I loved the way you speak Of knowledge and triumph And I, bumbling and meek Tirelessly I sought and now still seek Your council, your court For my amusement, for my sport Conversing over a poisoned well I listen in genuine Raise my voice Sing with my friends amongst the din Higher on the pillar, you I hoist Pure skin my well intentioned hands mar Clumsily, I lean into a similar heart To discuss life and literature, fantasies these hands take too far How eloquent the silk you weave, which you impart Which inveigles and entices, cajole us into the city On pale page, the street lamps and dim moon, art Palpitations and liquor test the pity Of light and fire I cannot help but explore your shapely form And yet, without bar Across miasma, my guide is a cute little hand Solitude, the pulsations do doggedly solicit I just want to be close, you grant this Bewitched by the creamy satin of pale skin Distantly, warmly, I gaze in those God-given sculptures Of the richest green and azure hues, bespeak feminine Engaged in the other’s stare, two drunken apers The night, black as sin, The mould of outcome of we are the shapers And I shape regret that rises with the sun You come back vividly and lucidly Distant and opposite, worlds across, you from me A nondescript ghost in the corner Who speaks so placidly I remember with regret I remember with exultation I’ve ruined our relationship Our relationship topical felicitation I haven’t had time to apologize I haven’t had enough time with you If I ever see you again I’d mend everything I’d discover the girl behind the name And cleanse the projection askew. Love, Me Dear... .

52

Do you remember the first piece? Did it wrap around wrists, a Twist or Curb hug fingers or hang round your neck holding on for silver or gold? Maybe it was gunshot through ear lobes hot blood rush, diamond studs sit in until body heals and holes held open stay open for hoops and dangles Is it worth your face in gold? Does he bling too, that black boyfriend? Is he Bead or Box or Byzantine chain blazing bronze or phat platinum Did you two star gaze for long at rocks and stones and coins stunned and dazed in all that tomfoolery? Did you ever put his glitter on and how long did that ice last before melting down to a memory? What would it mean to leave the house naked no sequinned cloak covering no shiny ear lobed shimmering's no solid gold hood hangings wearing just your skin to hold yourself in? Cloth does not count, it is matterless– would you be worth your face without gold?

0

Jul 21, 2011

Jul 21, 2011 at 4:42 AM UTC

5tar

Smart in Glitter

Do you remember the first piece? Did it wrap around wrists, a Twist or Curb hug fingers or hang round your neck holding on for silver or gold? Maybe it was gunshot through ear lobes hot blood rush, diamond studs sit in until body heals and holes held open stay open for hoops and dangles Is it worth your face in gold? Does he bling too, that black boyfriend? Is he Bead or Box or Byzantine chain blazing bronze or phat platinum Did you two star gaze for long at rocks and stones and coins stunned and dazed in all that tomfoolery? Did you ever put his glitter on and how long did that ice last before melting down to a memory? What would it mean to leave the house naked no sequinned cloak covering no shiny ear lobed shimmering's no solid gold hood hangings wearing just your skin to hold yourself in? Cloth does not count, it is matterless– would you be worth your face without gold?

25

A glass elevator ...stalled... Self-solvent sky-high-ocean-deep matterless mind & the oversimplification of plainclothes miracles ~Homecoming~

0

Mar 30, 2015

Mar 30, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC

Onoma

Glass Elevator

A glass elevator ...stalled... Self-solvent sky-high-ocean-deep matterless mind & the oversimplification of plainclothes miracles ~Homecoming~

11

Back on earth hand in hand, Gravity holds our celestial souls As our spirits freely flow... Above stratospheric heights In streams of northern lights We drift into the ionic night... Swirling lunar dismay As astral lovers play Through waves of gamma rays Vertical horizons give way To a star cluster phase As our spirits make haste Beyond the milky space Unexplored galaxies exposed The nature of black holes Worm holes throughout the cosmos Supernovas as they explode Still our matterless spirits flow... Nebulas illuminate our dreams Music of the hemispheres sing A gift from the multi-verse Inner stellar angels bring A world made for kings and queens... Back on earth, side by side We stare into the midnight sky...

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Jun 9, 2013

Jun 9, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC

TravelerTim

ASTRAL LOVERS

Back on earth hand in hand, Gravity holds our celestial souls As our spirits freely flow... Above stratospheric heights In streams of northern lights We drift into the ionic night... Swirling lunar dismay As astral lovers play Through waves of gamma rays Vertical horizons give way To a star cluster phase As our spirits make haste Beyond the milky space Unexplored galaxies exposed The nature of black holes Worm holes throughout the cosmos Supernovas as they explode Still our matterless spirits flow... Nebulas illuminate our dreams Music of the hemispheres sing A gift from the multi-verse Inner stellar angels bring A world made for kings and queens... Back on earth, side by side We stare into the midnight sky...

25

“a starless galaxy carrying gas and shrouded in dark matter” a townless galaxy rich in sulfur a gas cloud plummeting towards the milky way home you are reminded and now pale peels off you, shaved as ice the implosion completes itself in four ways replicated by the gravitational lens of something heavier than itself time in time in time rich in sulfur and algae blooms everything beneath the meniscus heavier than itself drowning in algae blooms purple mollusks, sardines sea lions swallowed by forests of kelp guts full of domoic acid and forget we eat the toxin-laced fish and cannot talk about what we wanted to talk about star matter, rich in sulfur rich in dark matter, heavier than starless towns home heavier than itself toxin laced, eating and drowning on matterless stars

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Dec 16, 2015

Dec 16, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC

chelsea-chavez

matter

“a starless galaxy carrying gas and shrouded in dark matter” a townless galaxy rich in sulfur a gas cloud plummeting towards the milky way home you are reminded and now pale peels off you, shaved as ice the implosion completes itself in four ways replicated by the gravitational lens of something heavier than itself time in time in time rich in sulfur and algae blooms everything beneath the meniscus heavier than itself drowning in algae blooms purple mollusks, sardines sea lions swallowed by forests of kelp guts full of domoic acid and forget we eat the toxin-laced fish and cannot talk about what we wanted to talk about star matter, rich in sulfur rich in dark matter, heavier than starless towns home heavier than itself toxin laced, eating and drowning on matterless stars

25

There is a number that knows itself Logic has predicted its numberness at most but logic does not know to what it matches Within its coordinateless space beyond the mind the number has formed itself at the expense of fixing a masterpiece about a lover made of the shape of one’s desire becoming that one pure desire of and to and for All or simply invisible known to none matterless formless filling temporary silhouettes until silhouettes collapse unknowingly about their barbapapaic nature to the unknowing so what you call ‘grand’ ‘poetry’ the combination of chosen words made of letters presenting duality between me and me made of the sound of the form of one’s ever changing body in one’s mind Vibrates in such frequency that when one reads one connects one to one *( like in maths – and a bit more complex than that considering sensual feedbacks etc :))* and transforms almost vectorial to some resulting frequency of an irreversible altered state and a doses of future changes but such occurrence cannot take place when once known OOPS! such occurrence takes place if it is irrevocable of the finite shells of time a true joker has a pure skin as such through a veil of pores nothingness floats towards its knowing keeps oneself as is unknown to all the separateness there is Thus the program forgets (:D = thankfully) or runs infinitely at a place : ‘this could be heaven and this could be hell’ as in Hotel California so you should know for yourself if you wanna make it love because If you not It’s then someone else because It is always someone as reasoning goes it is a manifestation of the self a contextualization of a narrative as story requires as story unfolds I always remind myself to keep up to one reason just which eventually are no words but sound or silence of a reflection on an expanding surface of a bubble in pure unfixable color Oh words of preconditioned unoriginals manifestations of self adorations what is there to be said or heard or grasped? when All stories are the same? Shaped extensions of one source sticking out repeatedly to tell one thing just expanding the bubble within the bubble and the bubble just to be heard once as big as a Hum en route exit as scriptures call it but am I gonna be able to hear it? (or you or us … )

0

Aug 12, 2015

Aug 12, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC

dnalumuland

Number Palaver

There is a number that knows itself Logic has predicted its numberness at most but logic does not know to what it matches Within its coordinateless space beyond the mind the number has formed itself at the expense of fixing a masterpiece about a lover made of the shape of one’s desire becoming that one pure desire of and to and for All or simply invisible known to none matterless formless filling temporary silhouettes until silhouettes collapse unknowingly about their barbapapaic nature to the unknowing so what you call ‘grand’ ‘poetry’ the combination of chosen words made of letters presenting duality between me and me made of the sound of the form of one’s ever changing body in one’s mind Vibrates in such frequency that when one reads one connects one to one *( like in maths – and a bit more complex than that considering sensual feedbacks etc :))* and transforms almost vectorial to some resulting frequency of an irreversible altered state and a doses of future changes but such occurrence cannot take place when once known OOPS! such occurrence takes place if it is irrevocable of the finite shells of time a true joker has a pure skin as such through a veil of pores nothingness floats towards its knowing keeps oneself as is unknown to all the separateness there is Thus the program forgets (:D = thankfully) or runs infinitely at a place : ‘this could be heaven and this could be hell’ as in Hotel California so you should know for yourself if you wanna make it love because If you not It’s then someone else because It is always someone as reasoning goes it is a manifestation of the self a contextualization of a narrative as story requires as story unfolds I always remind myself to keep up to one reason just which eventually are no words but sound or silence of a reflection on an expanding surface of a bubble in pure unfixable color Oh words of preconditioned unoriginals manifestations of self adorations what is there to be said or heard or grasped? when All stories are the same? Shaped extensions of one source sticking out repeatedly to tell one thing just expanding the bubble within the bubble and the bubble just to be heard once as big as a Hum en route exit as scriptures call it but am I gonna be able to hear it? (or you or us … )

100

It's been 8 days since this healing has begun Since your fradulant presence has not stung. And slowly my body drifts Towards the so called healing sun, .. But why does it burn ? It won't let me turn Turn away towards my once so familiar cloud. Time takes me towards the smiling sun, yet I grasp the matterless clouds There's no going back now , your eyes are not in my memories now. I'd rather be in the rain , if it meant I would remember your name.

0

May 10, 2015

May 10, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC

VGC

Chau

It's been 8 days since this healing has begun Since your fradulant presence has not stung. And slowly my body drifts Towards the so called healing sun, .. But why does it burn ? It won't let me turn Turn away towards my once so familiar cloud. Time takes me towards the smiling sun, yet I grasp the matterless clouds There's no going back now , your eyes are not in my memories now. I'd rather be in the rain , if it meant I would remember your name.

10

i’m searching for words that do not exist grasping for something in the matterless air they call it writer’s block but i feel much more disconnected than blocked as if overnight someone had unplugged all the cords to my creativity my mind feels dim and dissolved a damp empty space having no mass but seeping into my heart the nothingness fills me up and i stare hopelessly at the blank page in front of me

0

Jul 26, 2015

Jul 26, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC

cxnflate

Writer's Block

i’m searching for words that do not exist grasping for something in the matterless air they call it writer’s block but i feel much more disconnected than blocked as if overnight someone had unplugged all the cords to my creativity my mind feels dim and dissolved a damp empty space having no mass but seeping into my heart the nothingness fills me up and i stare hopelessly at the blank page in front of me

12

be aware of the sludge pouring from every hole grab the stone that stands alone becoming all the mud tickles the throat no mood since it's matterless plays to love prays wide crawling downstairs the lard breaks slips on itself ******* non existence of all of them ***** fragile vulnerable almost make us count them up the racks the slacks figmented meaty mind-snacks i wish i could hate them all to be so idiotically radical to explode in infinite gorey fragments of love and lust and sweat the most potent toxin the one that causes vivid ******* rather than ****** death pity and awkwardness...alas dear we know so little about love as little as its re-existence outside all poeticality and now we try to convince us in others that we do that we are your mind one of the best kind make every happily inside the eyes receive your aethereal caress

0

Dec 12, 2016

Dec 12, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC

asha-seriozhenka

for E

be aware of the sludge pouring from every hole grab the stone that stands alone becoming all the mud tickles the throat no mood since it's matterless plays to love prays wide crawling downstairs the lard breaks slips on itself ******* non existence of all of them ***** fragile vulnerable almost make us count them up the racks the slacks figmented meaty mind-snacks i wish i could hate them all to be so idiotically radical to explode in infinite gorey fragments of love and lust and sweat the most potent toxin the one that causes vivid ******* rather than ****** death pity and awkwardness...alas dear we know so little about love as little as its re-existence outside all poeticality and now we try to convince us in others that we do that we are your mind one of the best kind make every happily inside the eyes receive your aethereal caress

6

“There are days where I believe that my morning resurrection is met with nothing but passive malice. That the world is nothing more than a solid pinnacle of frictions, blocking our path to the next. The great next, the forever better next. Some see this blockage as absolute and choose to set thier grave at its base. Once again, our race choosing to bend before the self proclaimed unfathomable. To most, these are truths. But for me, I believe different. We can make the ground move, just through our will. We’ve grasped matterless vacuums of space, for no reason more than our curiosity. We can draw ungodly power from every glint of gold our eyes find in whichever direction we so choose, passion. Passion, such a small thing to some. But for those who choose to break down their own barriers and transcend the fog. Passion can obliterate any obstacle. Never forget, even when beneath a large marble idol. That we were not made in the gods image. They were made in ours.”

0

Nov 20, 2019

Nov 20, 2019 at 4:18 PM UTC

Dogma

Manifesto of Morning

“There are days where I believe that my morning resurrection is met with nothing but passive malice. That the world is nothing more than a solid pinnacle of frictions, blocking our path to the next. The great next, the forever better next. Some see this blockage as absolute and choose to set thier grave at its base. Once again, our race choosing to bend before the self proclaimed unfathomable. To most, these are truths. But for me, I believe different. We can make the ground move, just through our will. We’ve grasped matterless vacuums of space, for no reason more than our curiosity. We can draw ungodly power from every glint of gold our eyes find in whichever direction we so choose, passion. Passion, such a small thing to some. But for those who choose to break down their own barriers and transcend the fog. Passion can obliterate any obstacle. Never forget, even when beneath a large marble idol. That we were not made in the gods image. They were made in ours.”

9