"methodology" poems
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe
nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?
Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today
Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah
Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)
over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology - well, message me asap
wow there really is a Saskatoon!
the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin
see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)
ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea
gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
WHEELS!!
Car insurance policies,
Snafu in technology,
Male methodology,
Some men are kind and comical,
Some are not so logical,
So-called men and their vehicles,
If they've got tyres and testicles!!!!!
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
*if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
the genie of imagination begins inking
every piece referencing an original thread
one formulates works by this unique stead
of its methodology there will be no sinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
images and descriptive terms then spread
through each line noted on a linking
every piece referencing an original thread
to create one's own mixture of bread
never deviating far from the nub's clinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
always keeping time with a continual tread
the blue-print imparted in one's thinking
every piece referencing an original thread
what concept may spring to one's mind lead
within the verse there found natural blinking
if an idea for a poem pops into one's head
every piece referencing an original thread
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
Touch
You cannot lift or load it,
over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight -
is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert,
a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it,
but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders,
shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat,
gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face,
from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance,
true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty,
but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink,
befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face,
inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper
of words from my lips,
is an insufficient,
sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member
in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction
with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip
upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of
air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from
your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
*As I lay each word down,
a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move
as you savor my words,
my taste you share,
and we are closer for it.*
***Deaf, dumb and blind,
all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.***
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
Kalifornia sub-let of the love set / squatting in squalor to dwell in splendor / Temporary Autonomous Zone ignites ignoble night / misfit labyrinth of fire / in dearth of **** the mirth of Death / coming to Crowleyan conclusions / smoking to get lit / the flaming maze, maiming, flays / demonology of **** vs. methodology of death / distinguished Burning Man, extinguished / idyls of the idols reduced to ash / Light My Fire / sitting shiva vs. dancing shiva / rave on
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
not exactly high heels and thigh highs
but an invitation is an invitation,
engraved or post-it.
when I one-stroke open your furry bathrobe,
furry slippers thunking-kerplunking
onto the polished wood floor,
poet-puts you laughing, protesting, prone,
on the dining room table, we both shaking,
possibly from laughter?
when I one-stroke open your furry parts
with various soft tissue medical instruments,
to which ****** harm is now "uncovered"
as specially advised by my insurance company,
no more, no matter,
the lady doth protest too much about my methodology, methinks,
no more, no matter
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
Washington needs to wash Obama out of its hair
he's doing more damage the longer he is there
the hair strands are in need of new management
for under Obama they've received much torment
an improvement to the locks will be extra nice
as Washington gets rid of the Obama device
the Congress and Senate can do the shampooing job
which will see the Pres quickly given the fob
Washington will have a lustrous sheen to the tress
when the hairdressers get onto the mess
now is the time to employ good methodology
by washing Washington's hair with ousting technology
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
~~~
how to cook a poem/poetic theology
so many ways,
but one favored
after oh so many trials
after oh so many errors
taste tastings, plenty,
some good, some feh
some inspired, some liared,
but it's the process
the methodology,
that becomes your
poetic theology,
of
how to cook a poem
slow simmer,
as if it was
a hearty filling stew,
with the red wine,
you flavored,
for style unique
stew
over it,
add pinches of
contradicting adjectives
icy hot,
bland spice
and not everything nice,
bitter herbs,
fatalistic flaws
make it
to
make the left and the right
side of the brain
argue and engage,
let it taste of the foment,
of unease, disease,
and the
coming to terms
with the
alternating au courant currents,
of fashionistas
don't forget
the final seasoning, the finishing
reasoning,
the perfect certainty
of momentary
peace
uncovered, derived, home grown,
after a thirty years war,
and the
perfect uncertainty,
you still aren't sure,
which side won
and why
some fry in nastiness,
some broil,
flaming to burn away,
some boast to roast
of the average angst
that breathing
seems to
require
some peel,
some imbibe the raw,
all get sorted
for even what
writ in haste,
all sourced from ingredients,
taking years of seconds,
in the assembling
the trial and error
the preparation,
required for living a life
cooking poetry
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
~one more for Joel~
The “valuations” methodology taught me forty plus years ago,
now rendered valueless, and yet,
the devils remind in
humongous whispers,
confuse not price
(or reads)
with value!
To a man I never met, and now,
will not yet on this Earth,
this process, to estimate,
what a man’s worthy words
are but worth exactly,
how much???
It matters greatly,
for one has come to realize
these scattering of poems
will be my repute,
my legate in reverse,
to see me forward,
you will need to see me
in reverse.
Oct 3, 2023
Oct 3, 2023 at 9:26 PM UTC
*indeed the english do not trill their r
but simply curl it
(a bit like having a lollipop
stuck in your mouth and saying
something) - certain feats of elocution
can't be taught, they're a bit like
working out on your forearm muscles in the gym,
and indeed the tongue can be the cynical muscle
defying a methodology of weaving in
a chameleon presence into a host society.*
and do you know what hell i had
trying to teach one of my cats
to **** into the toilet
and take a **** on the tiles?
a shout when she did both on the tiles
and then petting her and ushering in
soothing words while she did
no. 1 into the toilet and no. 2 on
the tiles... i mean **** i can pick up
off the tiles, bleach the area and forget,
cleaning both **** and **** off
the tiles made my gag,
at least human excrement can suggest
it's sweet, and we're all solipsists
liking our own stinks - sound proof -
take your **** into a public place
and the theory will stand about
2000 years that you'll be the sole
appreciator of your own stink -
and that memory of me being a kid,
i used to do the same, take a ****
on the bathroom tiles, and when i finally
started using the toilet at first i was
actually perching on it / crouching on
as opposed to sitting on...
mind you i did suffer from a hernia
when i was a toddler... what's hernia?
well, the mighty internet is here, check it out.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 10:07 AM UTC
I feel, without the findings feel of those hidden-hands, which I cannot see,
The warmth-waking-wishing potency of crawling down-
wards from a state of reverence-see
Seeing! with those eyes of heart; the beauty love of a God of eternity.
I don’t wonder of it: knowing not to know is the
Devotion, a given test of my ability to look and see past visibility
My faith: built, as bones in me, to accept unconditional Truth from thee.
Trying hoping, I love, without alterations finds, true to Your methodology,
Crosses across’d the paths, which He wind Walked,
Speaking to the storied ancients of those miracles-measured
I yet didn’t live to see, but take on faith-
and a measure of reverence-see in the wanting of inspiring a little You in Me.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
I have no MO....
No particular methodology
I just dream things up
Add a sprinkle of psychology
Season with similis
Macerate with metaphors
Emulsify with emotion
Then get baked... Real high
Let the words cool
while my soul
starts to drool
then I present it
to the night.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 6:11 AM UTC
How to Read a Poem (Hint: Not With Your Eyes)
Touch
You cannot lift or load it, over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight - is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert, a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it, but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders, shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat, gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face, from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance, true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty, but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink, befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face, inject love poems into thy ears,
**straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper of words from my lips,
is an insufficient, sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
*Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.*
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
As I lay each word down, a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move as you savor my words,
my taste you share, and we are closer for it.
Deaf, dumb and blind, all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
I speak in tongues of men and angels, I speak as a man that knows the angles. I rhyme truth melodically, with my methodology, my words convicting you this is no mythology. And as tides of tithes flood our church like Jordan, the lives of lies, my tongue has shortened. So let's ask the Ghost of the Most-High, high above I, to bless this mission, this mission of mine.
(Are you sold? Are you inspired? By this sorcerer peddling his strange fire? Are you scared? Are you mired? By the weight of this second-rate evil-inspired rant that can't won't couldn't shouldn't be found profound by us when by Christ it wouldn't? The "broken bonds" of this sounding gong are just more chains, just empty song)
I've loved, lived, lost!
(But burned the cross.)
I've spoke and swayed!
(At disastrous cost.)
I've sung the hymns!
(So did the Devil)
Filled our church with gold!
(The softest metal.)
I fought back the dark!
(But it left it's mark)
Laid all at the altar!
(That's still awaiting a spark)
I witnessed to the street!
(On a weak foundation.)
Was given the the finest things!
(And moth and rust will take them.)
(It was never about what he could do, what glory can God take when who is seen is you? His “my’s” and “I’s” can’t save the lost, his “my’s” and “I’s” put Him on the Cross! Man can only save what gold can buy, and in the end owns nothing but gilded lies. You've seen his path, and where it leads. Do you see now that it's from you you're freed? Not debt, not pain, not loss or strife, but the crushing weight of your debauched life?
The Son will not impart what this man asks, for to leave you the world is not His task. For we are born, but do not live, until we surrender that which was not ours to give.)
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
“keep your dementia well organized”
it spreads to the outward edges like camera film alit,
burning inside outward, fast and quick,
the mutterings dispersed in voices
precisely loud enough to not be distinctly heard,
but perfect for your
active concerning consternation
you summon different voices for every occasion cause you
keep your dementia tools well organized
order is the successful methodology for maintaining
what otherwise appears and truly is, irrational rantings,
nuggets of chicken, you’re too chicken to loudly scream,
lest someone solves the riddles you are raving
it’s insane to keep your crazy so well managed,
it’s sane to keep your crazy so well managed,
it’s crazy to stay sane, when your demented nature,
is dewy decimal handy for steady decimation
you laugh while writing this,
recognizing a well organized personality disordered,
is the key to success at anything you do,
like being crazy cool
you, still crazy after all these years,
do not lack for historical perspective
oops! typo, hysterical perspective,
old tricks for new doctors, renewable energy
never fails to confuse and amuse,
hard work keeping yourself entertained
at the medical professions expense
which is why I keep my dementia well organized
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 9:59 AM UTC
twenteesventh.
you write of dismembered leaves,
enhaloed lust(wtf)
pains too sweet because they’re youthfully incomplete,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
dry rain droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
edible didactics, teaching “frosted flakys”
poetic methadone methodology,
poems hats with rhyming lyrics
that taste like that burnt eyelids colored
a blood stained mustard yellow, (yum),
beyond burger veggie based satyrs,
the happy gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,
***** ******* you want an
infernal cataclysm...
really?
dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other Olsonian beauties,
like I write with succinct passion,
me, who gets eaten alive by buggers saying
“too long,” “too long,” “needed a mid-poem napt”
non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why
PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?
jes kiddin’ a leetle
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
The truth's not in the details
it's in the attitude
with which you start the methodology
Examine historiography
and you'll know
you don't really know
Still, the fault of teleology
is more important than
the happenings you use to defend your point
Cause the details your viewpoint binds you to
show that irrationalities cloud our brains
There's no fine line to reason
Isaac Newton was afraid of humans
and spent most his time as an alchemist
We still believe in some magick
but in its waning days
people are getting mad trying to find
other paths of core thinking
One's driving force
and escape from fearing death
No, not even science can satisfy the why
but those who think it can
contribute to the scary times
****** and the Nazis
and the all encompassing
forgetting of future atrocities
The 20th Century was
the most violent of centuries
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
My Tango Master
His hair was deep, rich,
the black of unweathered basalt,
slick backed, like his look,
an arrogant dare to stare,
eyes directed at newcomers,
intended to make me,
a novice especially aware,
a bon voyage has begun,
now a worshiper, full of faults,
warning that I sought entry
to a temple where admission was a
sworn affidavit promising
total sacrifice of body
The flat contours of his body
disguised a airy litheness that
embraced and made me giddy,
pliant to his methodology,
mastering my psychology,
making the whole of my body breathe,
as if for the first time
No questions asked or allowed,
he bent me, taught me supple,
the surety of the pleasure of
following a leader unreservedly,
my body straight from within,
but the exterior,
a symmetry of curves,
I am,
his precision human tool
His hands grasped me
with utter certainty,
with a petal light touch
and fingertip precision,
directing me to Rio de la Plata,
where his swivel hips
lift this black robed disciple
upon a golden altar where
I have remained, entranced,
a devotee forever more,
enslaved to our one god
Demanding the perfection
that comes only from rigidity,
irony of ironies,
it was a vocabulary of
spontaneity and fluidity
step by step learned,
this contradiction, soon intuitive
With posture *****
he taught the history of seduction,
constructing the tale
each time differently,
creating within me
the ravished need for the
surprise of the unknown,
teased me into obediently
accepting the satisfaction of
joined at the hip ecstasy
With boleos that mesmerized ,
but not a one memorized,
he captivates me,
a tandem for a tanda,
until cortina-released
What is your name?
Tango
he whispers,
his name is in his eyes,
never spoke aloud,
I am your new master,
now come and master me
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
To face the world, a runt,
With such brunt and abasement,
Is to know ones place in the scheme,
Standing in the stream of frivolous
Happenings, this is the dance,
To be danced, this is the play,
Yet, he has the ears of a king,
To jest with such fire is to be
Ferocious, not feeble, his mocks
Are mostly mirrors for the blind,
For madness is a known methodology,
How he revels round the sad theatres
Of the high born absurd, how he speaks
In tongues and with bold proclamations
Only taut whispers of wind would know?
He is certain that the spindle fates are real
And that lightening strikes purposefully,
Kingdoms will fall, as the sun will rise,
As the noble trees ring with ideologies,
Without travails, he is always arriving,
To sleep out of doors, this is his way,
The path, the masted ship of fools.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
With all this glacial melting, and our own East Coast meltdown from our latest blizzard, I wonder how many Neolithic mummies might be found entrapped within ice sheets floating along our Jersey shore? And could these preserved remains just be displaced homeless, men and likely women as well, whose failed luck at Atlantic City Casinos left them in strange circumstance of frozen time encapsulation, only to become part of a future archeological find? To whom and to what advanced scientific methods, or perhaps retrogressive scientific methodology, will these corpses be subjects of, if found a thousand years from now? Can we predict no mix up of modern and long former species of man?Just say for instance, some pristine specimen of iceman 3,000 years or older is floating in an iceberg, down from Western Greenland and past Nova Scotia in a tidal melt that finally brings it to a flooded non-moppable place ignored by a present day, though barbaric governor. Then said governor is ambushed by its distressed and recently homeless victims mobbing and mopping on icebergs and struck by mop heads, just as this Neolithic berg is floating by with its' ancient hunter/gatherer Popsicle in tow. Who might know the difference? What future generation might be able to clarify the difference between the two, or might they even care?
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
as space sufficiently expresses, or succinctly paraphrases with the concerns for time: or hue, or suntan, or baritone hummed weakening into a humph... crazy-bone etc.; sometimes poetry is so much more than the usurping of onomatopoeia... life is the essence of being timed, but that's hardly the essence in the space we occupy - over-versed thinking never formalised toward an outer-reaching imagination that might become copper-raindrops' worth of Disney, or a way memory is made adaptive to cure dementia... yes, space is the essential component for the compartment of life... i believe time has no place in what's to be called life, i believe time exists, but on an Olympic scale, in the metres and millimetres, on the minutes and seconds scales... space is the essence of life: so diverging from known apparatus to unknown operations, thus so diverging from known operations to unknown apparatus... and so on and so forth, until dinosaurs roar and we merely say: yawn - arrogant in our guise.
true, space devalues time; as said the people between us who we never had a meal with, but had the crazed look of craving an unnecessary contentment with despair. can i guess at something? i like your alphabetical onomatopoeia, i.e. pun for knocking, a sorta p p p / b b b, not necessarily needing the suffix for rhyme, why is it that poetry requires the echo, why not rhyme upfront? anyway... but it's there, that alphabetical onomatopoeia... a repeating of the first letter, like opening an oyster... which contradicts the orthodox methodology of rhyme... meaning that there's a repeated seance of an opening... which (although alphabetically staged to a prevailing repeat) equips the reader with many more surprising alternations - basically you begin with what rhymes alphabetically, but not necessarily phonetically: the lost suffix -ing via i had a cat called blinding, and he said all things were shining... one of your poems enabled me to spot this reversal of poetic orthodoxy, in that the rhyme became less musicological, and more rubric enlisting a coherent schema, such as a list... or rhyme via propped first, and cascading into oblivion, never really minding the waggling tail of a bouncy-ball of accepted verse. aardvark and acupuncture... the rhyme begins with A, and ends as it should end, diverging, so there's no feel for a repeat akin to drum or rhythmic bass... otherwise: shout an A into a cave and hear an echo... that's what poetry is damnably worthy to congest one's thinking with... don't rhyme: echo! and ensure that echo is alphabetical rather than musicological. perchance lessened talk, i too would have revised this example with some worthy emoticon.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
I usually accept things
The way that I find them.
I get some bad hands
But I really don’t mind them.
You loved me yesterday
Bored with me today.
Sometimes I wish we could
Do this affair another way.
Up and down, then in and out;
That’s what you and I are all about.
Here today, gone this afternoon;
That’s the name of your crazy tune.
Love me or hate me
Choose what you want.
This flippy-flooppy love
Is just a wasteful taunt.
I think I must be using
The incorrect terminology.
Love doesn’t fit with
Your current methodology.
Up and down, then in and out;
That’s what you and I are all about.
Here today, gone this afternoon;
That’s the name of your crazy tune.
I think it is me who has
Mistaken lust for affection.
It might be time for me
To go another direction.
I will miss some of your
Intimate bedroom frolic,
But this kind of relationship
Seems very much alcoholic.
Up and down, then in and out;
That’s what you and I are all about.
Here today, gone this afternoon;
That’s the name of your crazy tune.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
Maybe I'm just looking in the wrong places
Maybe I'm looking for movement in stasis
Maybe I'm looking for life in ******
Maybe I'm looking for purity in the perverter
Maybe I'm looking for dust in the ashes
Maybe I'm looking for ice among matches
Maybe I'm looking for the truth in lies
Maybe I'm looking for hello among goodbyes
Maybe I just need to change my perspective
Maybe I just need to find a new prime directive
Maybe I just need to learn what it is to love
Maybe I just need to stare into the stars above
Maybe you are my release
Maybe you're my anchor
Maybe you'll help me find peace
Or help me find the maker
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
“Poets never ****
-V. Nabakov
Oh, but don’t we?
Our methodology might
Differ, our craft more subtle-
And yet the end result,
Escorting some poor soul
To the gates of whatever end
Awaits them beyond this frame,
Is abhorrently familiar,
Our motives no more pure-
We move in different mediums
Some artists in oils,
Others in brute force-
Working in time signatures
Of days and weeks, years-
not Mere seconds-
This is not impulse-
But words weaponized?
That is artistry refined.
We work in palettes of grays.
We need to know them
For the poison to take hold.
To work it’s way through
The bloodstream, through
Every muscle until it is absorbed
Into who they believe themselves
To be, something they can never
Change about themselves
That they are sure is visible
To every passerby,
Some fracture in the facade.
The planting of a seed,
A word, a phrase-
Insidious in its design
A dark spot on the mind
So small, seemingly
Insignificant, but the foundation
Upon which we build our
Scaffold, buried in some
Line of text, in some metaphor
That draws an indelible line
Between some worldly beauty
And a deep buried flaw
They try to hide from the eyes of the world.
It’s delicate business after all,
Planting self doubt and loathing
So ingrained that one is unsure
Whether they ever existed before
The thought that now destroys them.
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 6:33 PM UTC