"mediated" poems
What is it about this chase that eludes me
That runs away from me
That seeks to experience and then flee me
Until I get hijacked by another
Consenting to my own free fall into ignorance and bliss
Conditioning myself to transmit
Abundance without reservation
Until shot at the knee
But dragged along for a while longer
By the chains I so genuinely let bind me
And even before the wounds have healed
I don't stop running, I won't stop running
Resolute in a chase that targets me
I do so unconditionally
But you can't hijack my senses
I am not an experience or experiment worth having
I am not a temporary treat to be improperly digested and defecated
I am not an amber that ignites upon initial contact
To then be mediated or extinguished if the temperate is not right
I am not the holy water that you colonize
And shower with to cleanse you
To then invalidate that sanctity
When it falls down the drain
I am not a barometer that reliefs the labor
Needed to challenge the aberrations
Of your colonized and colonizing tendencies
I exist
Physically insignificant
As the earth that birthed me and will bury me
But eternal in essence
I am a permanent presence
I am an unforgettable imprint
I am your equal, no less, no more
The moment that we mutually acknowledge
Each other's existence
I have bound myself to you
From that moment...loved you unconditionally and eternally
And expect no lesser commitment
From you to me, or any other person you meet
And even after the wounds have healed
I don't stop running, I won't stop running
Resolute in a chase that targets us
We must unleash our abundance unconditionally
And when we leave
We will have given
Absolutely everything
That we had to give
During that time of our existence
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
This current resistance
in our duel circuit is
measured in ohmmms
of my meditated solace,
Mediated by the breaker
of a once-broken man
wary of a blown fuse
too burnt to salvage, a
lost cause to discard,
Replace & repeat with
each carless disregard of
the whattage we're wired
to handle, may a switch
on to off when overblown
prevent the spark that
burns down a home.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
i.
unfiltered asiatic plaything seeks
hypoactive cradle technocrat
evicting meaningful poach,
mendacious transcripts of
past events found in his
memoryless playhouse.
poplar crowd scribbles observations
outbound punch of laughter
sighs to the scrambled, ethnic
postgrad nation.
microfiche telegram exploits
meaning to deeper courtesies
current surrendered upon
entry.
ii.
psychotropic sustenance
fizz thru ***** vein corridor
secret mission lifestyle
learning fast in enormous packs of
tiny lies.
spew logic chagrin mediated
bloodstain; cerebus twitching
outside of beingself.
iii.
heart ceases,
sacred whitepaint moans.
o infidel,
strike thrice; a chord
binding us- nasty, *****
beads bleeding rich.
cloaked bushes tasting,
hisses cured human oaks;
tapered horns that sob,
casting waved heels.
iv.
dawn fallen, only concrete
possible now. separated by
thousands of what is not,
shocks disintricate; undwindling
patriots mailing lessness,
laughter sounds fetching
offband pitch.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
..
….
…...
….....
…...........
…..................
…............
….....................
…............
….........................
….................
….....
barometric tendrils
psuedo-random and hybrid sets
growing like ivy in the clutches of time
such a
chocking
but actualising
grasp
..huh? what?
oh yes! sorry, sorry
come in, come in,
..you know,
I too, once, like how you are now,
was here too
so
very
very
present.
Aha! Oh yes!
Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision,
'hee hee hee'
aaaaaahhh..
I really was pitiful back then.
seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome
with
ahem
sorry.
..dank and musty cellars,
hashish and a can of beans.
(baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- )
had it all back then though, didn't we?
By which I mean we had nothing,
but the conviction
that obligation was something that actually meant something
rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme,
(with a slice of lemon)
confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men.
Derivative markets
oh, so very much so
so very
derivative
idiomatic
and *******
asinine.
..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it?
'detached and disposable.'
toothpicks
limbs
ideals
all that
goodness!
I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I?
Interpolate up some mediated conjecture.
But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they?
So our fiscal policy seems to think;
'I wager we shear up the youth
to buy shares in implementing youth wages.'
sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint,
“think of the children!” , they say?
Can't they see,
the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens??
we do it all for them the little snots.
laissez faire welfare
hedge or double down?
A shrubbery?
Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese?
(I just vomited in my mouth a little,
(how pastiche))
See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past;
the future's got me car sick.
and honestly
we're just brimming with history
(the scourge of post-modernity)
like a black moss spewed on the walls
Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever
tearing up our lovely
lovely
pacified
pay and display
psuedo
proto
posterity
….....
….................
….........................
…............
….....................
…............
…..................
…...........
….....
…...
….
..
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Hallelujah, I’ve found you
one I could have chosen.
Were your body pliant, capable
more slight, more saudrey
a subjectivity
easily disposed
I would be able to hold your breath, capture your voice
contemptuous, mocking and wholly undue
spending more than a half a day
being who you are would make me hate you--
But for a morning, maybe from eight to noon
I’d take on your face, look straight in you,
my mirror.
Shout out my name three times
with hope, I would appear,
without your bated breath
from jagged mirror, foggy-eyed by shower
I'd be able see me touch your body, glistening
parting your quivering lips for
myself inside, to feel your smile.
A phantasm to myself.
I want you, my significant other
my lover,
my ontological
displacement
of
milky
misfortunate
malaise.
Your substance is my fortuitous down-going.
My ship-sinking speculum.
Desire, mediated by a lack of being-there.
Klage.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:00 PM UTC
Aesthetics shuns at its pedigree of Adonis fine
Athena sleeps in imitated leopard skin
Bark colored sheets, maroon subtle and deep, performs symphonics for the eyes
Aesthetics shuns at its pedigree of Adonis fine
Mediated time arises, not an evident second passes by
Aesthetics shuns at its pedigree of Adonis fine
Idols of the twilight prevents all which is dim
And Athena, she sleeps in imitated leopard skin
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
A void where when your affection dwelled,
A gorge profound, where satisfaction withstood.
Presently repeats wait, murmurs of agony,
A heart uncontrolled, lost in the downpour.
I meander through days, a ghost's phantom,
Tormented by recollections, a weighty expense.
Your giggling, a tune, presently a lament,
Your touch, a glow, presently an unpleasant flood.
The world appears to be dim, absent any and all shade,
An infertile scene, where nothing is new.
Each stage a battle, a fatigued situation,
Lost in the obscurity, without your light.
The evenings are unending, loaded up with despair,
An unpleasant quiet, stunning.
Your nonappearance, a consistent, a significant burden,
Pushing down on me, constantly.
I long for your presence, your caring hug,
To experience your glow, to see your face.
Be that as it may, distance keeps us separated, a horrible declaration,
A partition, difficult to see.
I look for comfort, everywhere,
In any case, track down no solace, no harmony, no Danny.
The world appears to be chilly, a relentless machine,
Without your adoration, I'm lost, concealed.
I attempt to occupy myself, with books and craftsmanship,
However, nothing can make up for the shortcoming in my heart.
The hurt of yearning, a consistent aggravation,
A significant weight, that I can't maintain.
I miss your grin, your giggling, your mind,
The manner in which you caused me to feel so fit.
Your affection was a fortune, a valuable gift,
Presently lost everlastingly, an excruciating fracture.
I long to hold you, to feel your touch,
To realize that our adoration, won't ever be squashed.
Be that as it may, destiny has mediated, a brutal wind,
Leaving me broken, lost, and uncontrolled.
I look for replies, however see as none,
Lost in a maze, where trust has gone.
The aggravation of partition, a weighty burden,
A weight excessively weighty, to be conveyed abroad.
I attempt to continue on, yet it's difficult to do,
At the point when each memory, carries me to you.
The prospect of losing you, perpetually, is a trepidation,
That torment my fantasies, a large number of years.
I trust sometime in the future, we'll see as our way back,
To the adoration we once had, a lovely track.
Up to that point, I'll continue, with overwhelming sadness,
Expecting a future, where we won't ever part.
Thus, I stand by, anxiously,
For the day when our adoration will vanquish demise.
At the point when we'll be brought together, by and by,
What's more, our hearts will retouch, and our adoration will rule.
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 12:46 AM UTC
suspected of being
problematic, one is a
common
but
questionable
model, and an
adjustment
may
be
required
to address all
the nonsignificant
differences—
how
they
nonetheless constitute
important arbitrary
criterions
for
equivalence
the significance test
based on
observational
data
is
susceptible to (errors
of) interpretation
over the
question
at issue
namely, do
case differences
arise
because of
exposure
to a comparatively
small sample
or
because
of
another variable?
Exposure can be
only mediated
by
crude
estimates
and so may be
misleading
during
the
forming
of the hypothesized
model of one
that describes
the
association
between exposure,
bias, and
the variables,
and
reconciles
difference
with equivalence
significantly.
The model provides
little information
that is
incontrovertible
but
the results suggest if
adjustment for the variable
makes no
substantive
difference
ignore it
but if your knowledge
indicates the
adjusted
variable to
be preferable
then prefer it
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:25 PM UTC
Gazing into a meadow filled with hope.
As my weary legs slip further into the light
Enemies gather around me, confining me into this place
For all eternity, I want to be remembered for doing what is right.
Insanity is past, emotional trauma never to heal.
Kept me checked into a a coast transition.
Although I wasn't cured of the brutal memories of the past.
I was always able to make concrete and valid vital decisions.
I want to tell you how I feel.......
Something holds me back, keeps me held in fear.
It takes every ounce of my being to remain truly real.
Final hours appear on the horizon, illusions becoming clear.
My emotions run through me like an electric current.
Robbing me of my good judgement and clarity.
It's definitely time to seek a my higher power for the only cure.
Sincerely afraid of what I've become, eyes forcing me to finally see.
Solitary confinement sounds like an affordable luxury.
And all the "loyal, perfect friends" have never even really cared.
I'm shredded, in agonizing circles of vicious pr-mediated plans.
Although, I'm aware of the enemy, myself, still I am running scared.
"Yes! Run away like a scared little girl, never to return.
Ripping my life apart, even when things are going well.
That's the pattern, the history, the story of my ******* life.
I'm not ashamed, its the story that I was meant to tell.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 4:41 AM UTC
You poor fools!
Pity be upon you!
You are practicing
A dying art form!
Do you not realize,
That poetry is biased
Towards the literate?
There once was a time
When the scribes were
Revered as gods, but
Regrettably, that time
Has long since passed.
Now, we live in an age of
Constant, electronic stimulation,
Mediated by a steady flux of
Ready made imagery, where
Flashing lights and bright colors
Whittle away at the attention span, and
Destroy the capacity of the mind
To imagine for itself, so
Keep your word count low, and
Your syllable count lower, or
You just may lose your audience.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
I swallowed my saliva
Desiccated air
It was darker than the city
At urban’s edges pretty
First Prize Second
The ringer goes off in sequence
The theme park illuminated
Not with lights but with
The smell of anticipation
Holding our own
Felt like holding someone else’s
Our footsteps
Loud but drummed to the beat of another it paces
The Crusaders mediated
A brawling debut
Of words at the brim
Of our throats in disputes
Our silence
Unlike the night
Was warmer than an Afghan
20 kilometres felt like 2
When I am walking alongside
Hand not in hand
Alongside with you
Jun 19, 2020
Jun 19, 2020 at 10:59 AM UTC
Mary Jane here we go again
Just me and you on this private plane
We hit a few turbulents from the ****
But we were able to maintain and came back strong
We should not be doing this
But how can something so right be so wrong
-
And now we are faded
Out of space, this world we evaded
On a new level, we evaluated
Inner peace, we mediated
Inner circle, no blunts rotated
Mental peace, we medicated
-
Mary Jane here we go again
On this journey, you and I
I was lost until you heard my cries
And as we watch how time flies
I no longer feel lonely with you by my side
Take me along on your ride
As you cruise through my mind
-
Lowkie ©
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 11:50 AM UTC
the steam of the shower holds your face
like a pillow.
pushing out the smog, clutter in your head
billowing around you and thawing out
the raw thoughts that you try to freeze over.
the endless patter of hot rain that
cleanses, but also
hurts
in that it's one of the only
honest sounds you'll ever hear
(outside of love.)
the moment you step out into the humid, mediated
atmosphere of a cooling room
the water dripping off your arms,
your hair,
your face,
making you anew.
but as everyone does, you wipe the mirror clear
to see your face, and know that despite life,
it's still you.
it changes you, yet proves your you-ness more than anything else.
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 12:50 AM UTC
Between two wars you came.
You mediated
And lit the fire of a new love.
And we began to spread ourselves between two suns
One for me
And the other for your eyes when the roads vanished
And we only fell out over the A
When it wanted to insert itself
Between the W and R.
We told each other I love you.
The wars are made beautiful with songs.
The songs wipe the blood from the wars’ lips.
We’re never far from its grip.
We can exchange with it our stay
And I was as I always was
Loving your letters and always want them.
You, my soul mate,
You, the voice of my voice,
You, the dotting and un-dotting of my letters
the teacher says:
she would remove my sorrows
and heal my tender soul?
I said:
I will make flowers of you;
And I had forgotten the greenness of an evening,
after the drought of my femininity.
Return to me then
So that we can hate this imposter
This idiot
The image is like a blonde
Forgotten by the aged.
Forgetting that our sky
Is black despite his existence,
And red despite his clinging to the tails of a dubious morning’s veil
Come back
So we can hate him
This traitor
Over the uniformed streets he looms like a policeman watching.
My finger tips and your fingertips
Come back again,
So I can show you my essence
I your notebook
Come back to me then,
So I can tell the apples in the basket
Like they told me about you.
translated by Dikra Ridha
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
Be assured, the sun always rises
through out morality.
Re, nach einmal, crows caw,
and race down the valley
laughing, beating the call from the roosters.
Re joyed be,
re joyed being, noise of life in morning,
caws of crows,
calling crows.
and tweets and peeps of tiny things,
wake us all to be once more
users of light made in life,
doing duties,
crowing and cawing and
stretching and yawning and such.
oh, what a day!
Mitwoche, aber mas, mucho mas,
este dia, este dia
Vvoden's tag aqui, we rejoice
and be glad as on any given Wednesday,
as though it were like any other fine day
to begin in,
in relation to light letting
letters let the sense
of life seem true, sure things, can't loose,
choose, this day,
miércoles,
realizes its possibility… being the basis,
the one event that must occur
as in the night,
the earth must turn,
doing the actual cycle of living
in quanta mediated reality, ones in order,
this day
digital squawking alarms, flashing
red-lights and green, signifying
oomph enough, trickle
charged to aid my being connected…
to the task at hand,
this is the given
Wednesday,
I choose to pay a whole day worth
of rapt attention… drawing on
power stored in darkness,
dripping into day, clepsydra wise.
Wiping sleepy from woken eyes, to see the old new.
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 9:28 AM UTC
from the tip of distal phalanx to the in-between phalanx media / distalis, i measured the orb, as the cursor denoting L.
i wrote this poem, with the fake...
should the sun come closer to
to earth as if the moon and earth entwined...
the distance would be this third orb...
now seen apparent in the sky...
a rarity kinship of omen that expanded
further more than i claimed...
in the foggy smog contrast it expanded
so much more...
what a strange telescope i’m seeing through...
it usurps japanese aesthetics...
it says:
simplicities first, complications later..
not like the french existentialism of:
complications first, simplicities later...
governed by what came from the linear
coupling of existence and essence...
mediating the kantian assertion,
a priori and a posteori are mediated
with: a priori ipse a posteriori -
as kindred of the cherry blossom,
the hawk and the maggoty optics burrowed into.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”
rarely fails
to shine his eyes
though he is not a man
to shed tears easily
apparently
the harmonies
touch strong emotions
spawn deep dreams
this time
the power of music
graces momentous acts
Europe is growing
75 million people are joining
decades of separation
are beginning to end
he looks at mediated images
of exultation across the latitudes
fireworks songs speeches
fears and hopes
and wishes
wildly
almost desperately
to believe
these are the right steps
in the right direction
* * *
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
every
pose
breath
movement
is an examination
between
the
strongest convictions
of the
mind
and the body's
yearning
for
paradise
a
heated debate
of the
proper
interpretation
of
natural
decree
with
mediated speeches
unfurling
from
cramped muscles
comes
an inflamed
urgency
to be
the inception
of power,
battling
to
overcome
a silent
hymn
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
My hands are clipped
My lips are sealed
My eyes they flipped
Was sworn to be healed
The demons chuckle
As my heartbeat slows
My body tightly buckled
As my blood freely flows
The reaper nods it's head
As death was not destained
My soul was grieving scared
While my body all stained
I mediated a silent prayer
For my body was almost dead
Soon came the slayer
To scoop off my head
My flesh now a fresh set meal
For the devil that lays beneath
Satisfied with it's evil deal
My bones lying out of its sheath...
©sim
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
you know, in my life
i've only noted seeing
a public expression
of musical notes being
written down in a public
place only once...
among 8 billion people
i've only seen one composer...
what an eerie feeling
seeing the ancient Bach or
Mozart compose sober
without the numbing of alcohol
to shut-out the crowd of
chaotic opinions surging
without the archfiend socrates
outlining temperament and tempo
of what's to be addressed
and mediated into cohesion
of replica upon replica upon
no such mistake undertaken ever again;
are you serious, seeing that much
over coffee... indeed... no nonchalant
swagger with a bottle of wine
down the street... but come into
my vicinity and you'll just see that,
albeit with a can of beer.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
it wasn't popular or ascribed as necessary because it didn't govern both crown or the crowd - it invoked a rebellion that didn't attract crowds since it didn't involve a crown.
when the Englishman uttered the word:
neanderthal - subsequently - or how are we connected
to a Chimp and not the Gorilla -
meaning the involvement of the existence of
doormen at nightclubs - the Slav said neanderthal -
and in the evolutionary rubric suggested
the cause of extinction with the words: why are they
so stupid? measuring craniums it became evident:
watching the sun for too long will not make
you see the spectrum of ultra-violet - after all,
evolutionary demands are met with keeping
common sense, these individualised explanations
will not keep you prone to exercise a stiff one -
some of use rebelled and said: god speed, but don't
include me in it - the rascal brigade in Iraq
is the same over-knowing under-sexed partition
of what needs to become extinct, like the neanderthal;
some said: amazing! others said: that's stupid!
they measured skulls - and who said the school motto
of boys: smells like an oyster (concerning female
genitalia) wasn't true - given the current economic
environment? it's either a jungle or a zoo... either
jungle or zoo, you can leave the caves a mediated in-between
or a mortgage loan - i'll probably die disgraced,
but i'll bath in laughter first - they can pay
for diesel, they can pay for knives, they can pay
for heating, precursor failings of health via insurance,
supposedly champion science with care homes,
they pay for butter, for bacon... but they end up
stealing from artists! dumb monkey dozes
right now, and ends up articulating a.m. v. f.m.
a day later - but that doesn't, cheap-thrill-thieves -
like prostitution un-masked while watching **** -
a conversation about feminism and dating conundrums
about who pays a fair share or runs out from a restaurant
altogether...
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
The Last Bed We Buy
Grateful not to find myself
disembodied hovering high above
this stark cake of soap, gazing down
laboring to put names to faces, the couple
so familiar, side by side, palms down, still as
miller moths displayed on pins, I drift off
to the drone of Bill or Ted, rumpled as
a morning after motel king intoning
soft or firm versus memory foam
or pillow top, hypoallergenic …
the last thing I hear before we fall
fast asleep spooning on a plush queen,
not too soft and not too hard, but just right,
satiny raft to ferry us the last stretch of river.
Waving like the Queen we float past the last new
roof over which we will preside, nod in solemn
recognition of our high efficiency gas furnace
apt to burn on years after I’m gone, applaud
politely what jolly well may be a farewell
drive north through the Tunnel of Trees
some biting October afternoon, weep
softly for our old squirrel chaser sawing
soft imprecations to hips gone tender some
blustery April night dog years from now, blow
low Bronx cheers in a fond adieu to life mediated
through screens. Even Bill or Ted knows that grace
lies just ahead around the next oxbow, leaves us
to dream, two dormice cupped in a leaf, rills
and eddies bearing us seaward, buoying us
downstream on softly rolling shoulders.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Soon she was called into
For a job interview
At the FBI
And she gave her whatever resume
She had
And that she spoke in tibetan, Japanese, Russian and of course English
They told her she was accepted into the academy
4 monthes of shear hell
But she has been through worse
And she proved her metal
And passed
Not she was an FBI agent
But celebration was short lived
When she went to
Bed
In her dreams Boris haunted her dreams
She did a lot of good and saw action
But lived as a loner
And wrote to her daughters
Though she couldn’t bare to see them
For they reminded Claudia of her first
She just hope that they never saw her sketches
One October day
On the year of 83
Claudia’s tragically cut short
In action
Before she died in her hospital room
From complications
Of being shot
She sat up
Mediated
And breathed out Om mani Padme hum
And drifted off
Not a care in the world
For she was with her
Beloved Russian punk
In shambala.
In paradise.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC