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I like a whole lip-smacking smorgasbord of words,
such as preposterous and scrumptious,
sumptuous and curious,
roiling, rambunctious and trumpeting,
priapic, satyric and seraphic,
satyriasis and mimesis. Now this mimesis is the imitative
representation of nature and behavior in art and literature,
which is a pretentious way of trying to say what us writers do.
But hey, we don't just mimic things,
we can be sagacious and salacious, too.
Accordingly, I also like *******, which has a liquid sound,
and I'm not being facetious to suggest that
******* has a close connection to callipygous.
Then, for those who are suspicious of the libidinous,
I also like curmudgeonly and bodacious,
loquacious, precocious and pulchritudinous,
lubricious and fugacious,
scripturient, radiance, iridescence and magnificence,
lissome, lithe and languid (but not too limp),
shimmering and diaphanous, effulgent and evanescent,
flamboyant, fandango and flibbertigibbet,
(although this is difficult to say when you’re drunk),
voluptuous and vertiginous, slithery, **** and glistening.
And when I include crepuscular, strumpet and strawberry,
I may as well add whipped cream
as well, because this can be laid on in dollops,
and dollops is really an excellent word
along with slurping and *******, too.
Actually, I'm very flexible about words,
because in my lexicon, low moaning noises are OK, too.
These sounds come from the chord of creation
which is a sort of reverberation from the time of
primordial ooze, which I would like to squish between my toes.
Then there's protozoa, spermatozoa and also
wriggling flagella everywhere. So there.
But words don't even need to make sense,
because sweet nothings can say everything,
and heavy breathing can be ******,
even rhapsodic, ending in delirium.
Titillating should be in here too, because we all need
some tintinnabulation and tickling of the senses sometimes.
I've also decided that fecund is my second favorite word after love.
Fecund sounds abrupt, but it buds magnificently
in ******* and bellies to burgeon in absolute abundance,
everywhere. This brings me to *******, which I like, too.
I'm also partial to proud words, including bold, bulging and
brazen, along with a bit of swaggering braggadocio.
Then I like some big words, like brobdingnagian,
although I hope I'm not sesquipedalian.
Salivate is a word to celebrate as well,
along with onomatopoeia that helps choose some words here.
Drooling is highly evocative, too,
and it's not being provocative to observe that
even weapons drool when they're in the wrong hands.
And I shouldn't leave out *******, as you would expect,
because ****** is a sort of rippling word
that rhymes with spasm. Both sound deceptively simple,
but by golly, they can be intensely gripping.
And really, it's alright to writhe to this occasion
because all of us writers should endeavor
to have some good writhing in our oeuvre.
Even some bad writhing can be lots of fun, too.
But I almost forgot to mention yearning and burning (with desire)
and vulviform, velvet and venerous.
Yippee, yee har and hollerin' along with other exclamations
of exhortatory exuberance should be in this index, too.
Now. The words I don’t like include no, can’t, never,
stop and mustn’t. Also, irascible and intractable,
unmentionable, ineffable, inexpressible, incoherent,
immutable, impotent and impossible.
Then I don't like importune and misfortune,
and I don't know who thought up unthinkable,
because this is an oxymoron.
Inscrutable is also a complete cop out,
especially when there's no such word as scrutable.
Gawping, gaping, cavernous and cretinous, obsequious,
grovelling, pursed lips, circuitous,
obfuscation and isolation, unpalatable,
cruelty, tyranny and hypocrisy,
should also get the heave-**.
And I definitely don't like parsimonious and mendicant,
which are miserable words.
Quitting doesn't get there either,
and shut the **** up and ******* should also be taboo.
Also, hopeless is, really, well, it's hopeless
because it denies hope, and hope is buoyant and boundless.
I mean, sometimes hope is all we have.
But the word I dislike most is ****,
because this is an insulting word, and
to be taxonomical,
the negative score of this word is astronomical.
Hate is also right up there on this list. Hate is abominable
because it tries to destroy love, and love is indomitable.
Indomitable
is the
mightiest
word
of them all.
Yeah. So there.

Mike T Minehan

Discoboli of African poetry has now sparked above aphasia
The aphasic silence today breaks eardrums with cacophony
Of the world audience in the by standing duty of workshop tubes,
Executing poetic experiment on the origin of **** poeticus
To link the archaic baboonish proteins to the black chimpanzee
Cradling African man, the sire of all and their poetry.

That when the Chimpanzee blood we poured
Into the African veins of vena cava and aorta,
Feeding the heart with viscosity of nutrition,
And the Chimpanzee blood fell into deadly
Tomperousness like Shakespearean impetuosity
Once seen in Romeo and Juliet, giving timely Birth
To untimely half the yellow Sun
That juxtaposed planet of poetry
Behind the star of tribe as a priority
Condemning to stark oblivion all the fated,
in full uniform of tribal dimunitions, or mimesis.

Ever predated on when tribes form nations.
A time to try the chimpanzee blood in the veins
Of white humanity, battling cynosure
Historically evinced in Antony and his father,
Or Tybalt and Mercurial of mercutio,
Or Macbeth and counterparts
Or Hamlet the Danish and the inheritors of his mother,
As the white blood cells of the white blood,
Militantly attack the white corpuscles
Of the misfortunate chimpanzee,
Converting the later into
A chewer of misfortune.

nice to meet you, how are you
i am well, and guarded too
something 'bout you, i can't place
you have voice, and a pretty face
you abstract thinker, mental scribe
let's meet here and we'll imbibe
and then we'll talk and then we'll bake
and talk some more and then partake
i'll fall asleep into your arms
and i'll awaken to your charms
if by dawn the music's done
we'll hit the store for another one
i'll lead a tango, just for us
and i won't look to hop the bus
i'll follow you where you might go
i'll listen to what you might know
i'll mend my craft with you in mind
i'll see the beauty you designed

now, I will try to abandon time and space
in this form of truancy.

what is this abandonment trying to measure?
  the abeyance of presence.

what is the measured variable trying
to dissect? the impossibility of absence.

a poem aspires to be something concrete. a poem
   is what is real and imagined in the same context.

I try to invoke Abad -- what is imagined is most
   real.  this shall be its leitmotif.

now, i imagine the horizon as a point

of origin, or a template to some familiar projection,
  or a tagebuch summarized into a fine line
of allegories and denouement.

what this line tries to prove is that

an enjambment is a mimesis.

acknowledge the sublimity of a
  creation. notice that the sequence that will
be promised is diegesis of absence as form
     but not a poem as in a poem that enshrines
lucidity -- but the lack of it.

there is only the photograph of horizon
   as hypothesis of perpetuality. this now

is a subject, a speculative undertaking rearing a
   poem -- writing as preparatory for absence,

finishing a line as pursuit of thesis, gravity of
    its heft as tabulation of emphasis, or
verbosity, which may be telling of meaning or chronology.

a poem that is not a poem,
  But poem as a form of absence

that aspires to be a poem.

what is transpiring now is that i am assuming
   an utterance: utterance as being here,

and perhaps voice as sound of becoming but not finality
   of presence, and sound as disappearance

post-peak. its point-source silence and formation
   of thought, and then a poem is written as

evidence of disappearance in deep and close
   contest with a vision coming from another

audience as an objective supposition or
   reaction that may propel an exchange

but only when silence is entertained does
  silence happen, and so this may be dismissed

as a monologue among dialogues insofar as
    only to pinpoint this arrogant feat:

i may be speaking glossolalia, or in tongues,
  and that i seek no reprieve nor vestige,

all the more response -- intone of voice
   stilling itself in the tense setting

of being gazed upon, glazed with coherence
  of senses from one identity to another say,

you hear me speak as in speaking
as baring sound.
   but now that i have spoken, i have already undone

  the quiet to stir volumes and amplitudes
to attest sound-fade as vital component of absence,

whereas this poem produces ample sound
  if you pay close attention to yourself reading

in the lull form of reading (your
breathing will have intensified here,

your reasoning will have made so much
  noise here) as i continue to whittle

away in form of verse, verse not as poem,
  verseliteration not as occupancy of space,

but all in all, a body of work
that is a visage of movement - or a trace of absence, physics of space and kinesis of departure.

a delineation of a thing that was once
   thriving in threshold accompanied

by its tendency to wane: sound may be an
     analogue of unheard, as sound is impervious
to quietude but quietude conscious of sound
     and its potential,

that quiet coheres to its inclination to consummation,

this completeness so emphatic,
this allegory as
  absence the somatic, axiomatic,

indefatigable machinery of a presage,
   or continuity -- this poem that is not a poem,

but an excess of sound, a body that
   deserves end,  a punctuation.
     verity of this argument in basest form.

this body of work as absence
  and its completeness, volition

of its enigma: is this the end
  of sound or your silence summoned?

to drag it back, its recalcitrant body,
   is form of revision, then possession

of an absence, a recollection that will have granted
   seamless entry and translation

which passes on from its origin to
  a new clause -- to end it here, now and pass

over as readable only in the background that is
   an embellishment of absence amongst

things in exclusive continuity, to have this produced
   in space as empirical of absence,

and to punctuate this, a mystification,
or say, acceptable fabrication,

to read and extricate as acceptance of an absence
   as form: this poem that is not a poem but

only a physicality delimited -- to speculate
and study
as disbelief, and to have done such simply

demystification of its transition.

Mimesis:  
the deliberate imitation of the behavior of one group of people by another as a factor in social change.*


Somewhere, someone
knows these  colors to be home.
Not only the sandy complexion of the boots,
but the laces slipping and sliding
into loops and over
soft tongues and slowly pulling,
constricting, suffocating.
Even its shape—
the shallow curve of a man’s ankle,
the slow descent to the tips of his toes—
these are the sandy silhouettes and generous hills
recalled from their youth.

Someone, somewhere
admires jagged peaks of pale crested mountains.
The same jagged peaks
they have seen rising and breaking
in the wrinkles of loose fitting fatigues,
and complimented by vests,
spotted with the gentle green pastures
once ruled by their jidd’s sheep.

There are chains of mountains
as wide as chests under Mandarin collars
and just as full of pockets and pouches
as military issued BDU’s—

but this is cheap imitation.
It is a failed mimesis.

Symmetry deficits call for chiaroscuro.
Highlight the summits,
and diffuse shadows at the vertex
of cheekbone and mandible.
Colour the apples, rubescent as newborn flesh,
and soften edges for a gentle definition.

If you paint claret from bow to corner
it can create something fuller; induce desire-
Valencia can bleach the blemishes.
Liquid or matte lies in pesky furrows
and rots like carrion in warm weather:
remember to blot excess sebum prior.

Are you pneumatic? Applications can support you-
with enough you can acquire
something ample for a decade.
Look to the lens. It winks;
raise brow in a clean cut, diagonal
from nostril edge: the playful frame apertures admire.

Flash.

Share with friends:
refresh/close/open,
and sigh at affirmations.

We have learned
About eternal
Distinction between things.

We have seen
The separation
And the cutting into half.

The faces and the masks,
So similar but not
Entirely the same,
Are driving us mad.

Please –
Please for once -
Make it stop;

Make the division stop
And show us
The one thing.

I grate my teeth on the sight of me,
my dark reflection.
Once a little child innocent to the core,
now a dark ricochet of light.

How I'd like to bury you for what you become,
just to resurrect you from what you used to be.

from this day i'll cast upon you my apathy.

at this time in the past right here

it used to be real

oh!...oh! for another reality

to leave this false perception

and go...go...go to feel the wind

on another's face

to see with another's eyes

how the colours appear to them

to hear what another hears

with an innocent ear

to feel the euphoria

that slows the world down

to have another's departure

from all perceived notions of reality

to a new understanding

another reality

where brief encounters with time

start with the embarkation of a sentence

that causes a curious disquiet

to race through the nerves

ricocheting in a vibrancy

of vatic vitality, a creative tension

transforming the cortex

creating new unforeseen images

a new reality where thoughts are visible

and circulate, orbiting moons around the mind

dazzling with a universal symbolism

that with a kaleidoscopic vengeance of words

scatters and amplifies the distinctions

of the senses, into a new reality

one of convulsive voices

oh! this new reality

it causes me to walk to a stranger

who is myself

and forms a true disintegration

of a controlled focus

on a beautiful disorder of

chaotic discourse of a volatilized impulse

of the emotions, where blood stains smile

lavishly with a different vocabulary

destroying a predictable reality

and forges a new one that entertains discovery

of other dimensions.. which are the figments

of another's imagination

it is solitary encapsulation of ideas

that glitter on my tongue

where conflagrations of burning water

swirl dramatically in difficult articulation

of the smells and rancid ***** stains

of the ordinary that tries but is precluded

from the stream of consciousness

rushing in a discord of sympathies

through the inner geography of my mind

and forges a symbolic relationship

with these inplosively brief encounters with time

causing psychic post apocalyptic

predispositions to a false mimesis

"Cap-ti-va-ting,
sim-ply cap-ti-va-ting”
in Mommy’s mirror,
he tries to be delicate with his mimesis.
Young fingers fumble the rouge tube.
He’s teetering on heels, on toes
not enough grown, not enough.

A falling of chiffon too long,
and shaking grass-stained knees beneath,
On pink-inked cheek and lip, he’*****.

Retching, and sobs over mother vanity,
the perfume struck the awful dusk,
giving him a first taste of an alcohol-laced lust
for a beauty unobtainable; a beauty that can ruin.

DANIEL!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!
DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS
TO GET LIPSTICK OUT OF WHITE LACE?!!
JUST YOU WAIT UNTIL DADDY COMES HOME.
JUST YOU WAIT.

Before the end it all took place,
I met a man who drew my face;
The paint decides the life it shows,
As ancient men like Plato knows...
for in that portrait I was king,
and people never knew a thing...
for eyes and heart showed innocence,
and in my heart remembrance...
although they'd never understand,
Yet here I sat with crutch in hand.
The portrait's old and incomplete;
that moment framed. Yet obsolete.








But once upon a time and place,
I meet this boy who draws my face;
I held a secret no one knows,
this memoir only wisdom shows...
through pain the art reveals a king,
but Aristotle caught a thing;
a childhood swiftly evanescent,
rare-like paint and senescent...
a boy with rope and kite in hand,
Unsure the world would understand...
thus birds not fly; I'll supersede.
Still not convinced if i'm complete.

We are creatures made ill;
by the decision to remember or forget our many exhausted selves,
Those familiar faces
Worn from the weight of self birth.
I do often see
See sight of familiar eyes ….
A memory fresh in your palms
Appearing most often at night,
When the barriers to duality falter and
momentarily, our hearts align.
Most likely it is just the pulsing of flesh that feels to us like presence.

So young to have the misfortune of a rot.
A sepsis caught from the spit of the past,
Asked falsely back by laments,
Cast into your own ether at self expense.
Hence, it appears worthy of thanks,
that the one with whom I shared a skull no longer gives me fear.
Anxiety, sheer dried flesh that brought me close to death,
For years, I have not tasted her iron on my breath.
Retrospective thanks, perhaps, that bring a memory back?
Easy. Wonder, where that shade hides,
For it’s true — we grow and shed, but keep our baby eyes.
I didn’t perform my own last rites,
So then perhaps it is my own shadow, cast by two lights.
It’s important, not to forget to worry.
Worry of your own mimesis, flesh imitation
Poetry’s invitation, in this developing obituary,
with each memory dragged from stale dirt with wary hands,
Serving to marry that past and present —
The act of burying that younger girl I cannot see —
Forming a shadow of its own, and killing my Eurydice!
I know the danger of Calliope’s hyperbole.

How worthy I am now, of love and life.
Tangible hours, warm and empty nights,
dripped in February sun, October ice.
Fresh and scented air.
Now these days, they pass with eloquence,
Joy exists, and this is evidence.
What’s strong in me, force that fills my once cold thighs and stomach,
Fruit and wine, yes — but most of all, the years of age gained living with death as a child.
Exiled from my own body, only to return old, but carrying the capacity,
the ability to be unrelentingly happy.
There are some things you never gain again after being lost.
Innocence —  those snowdrops don't return after a frost.
Innocence, something I'm not sure I wanted anyway.
Unlike Orpheus, my dead Eurydice had a single life.
My glance is as his, far from pulling her from the Underworld,
That old and broken lover is kept inside by hindsight.
But I offer to the Underworld, that blinding grey I now have so happily forgot,
That blinding grey haunted, I imagine, by the shade I share a name with,
This final lament to the lost years.
I know now to not flee fears that surround my own myth.
A confession and a celebration, my own libation —
dedicated to a prayer that they stay dead, forever.

My daughter wouldn’t hurt a spider
That had nested
Between her bicycle handles
For two weeks
She waited
Until it left of its own accord
If you tear down the web I said
It will simply know
This isn’t a place to call home
And you’d get to go biking
She said that’s how others
Become refugees isn’t it?

Illusion persuades by coy mimesis
So I never dared to host the thesis
That our love was never real
My world gets filtered through a warp
It bears no semblance, the truth distorts
Where the spectres of madness play their deal

Now then you might think it's odd
That I could entertain the fraud
Of a lie that's whispered in my head
But there's a multitude of phoney speakers
As they grow stronger, I grow weaker
And the resistance to them in my mind drops dead

So I ask: are we kin, darling, you and I?
Or do you refuse to be an alibi
In this cruel and cosmic delusion
Nothing changes for all the desire
You're still not here, I'm still the liar
Suffering a truth contusion

Yet we often cross our paths like two wee duck
And when we do I thank the gods and luck
Praying that we will cross again
But I've learned our paths are a parallax
Like the horizon, or train tracks
Love is lax; we end up cleft in twain

Now you, I made "you" up inside my head
So now I want you somewhere else instead
Put you where you can't torment
My porcelain psyche is fragile, cracked
and broken. All the odds were stacked
Against us anyway: Call this love's lament.

The sky leans down to laugh, the trees uproar
It's impossible to tell who's laughing more
Or if the laughter's even true
Yet in unison the world mocks me
For the frivolous, foolish flight of fancy
That pivoted footloose between me and you

Now exit love this prodigious charade
My best laid plans have been waylaid
It's time to call the curtain
But if there's one thing that I've learned:
To stop my heart from getting burned
I should be more cynical, uncertain

Wandering in cyber-realms impossible,
with in-ness being me, my mind being me... me
touch, sense, taste, feel
me... let me
be
rhyme on rime on or i'm gone,
eh. Mimeme mnomena phem kiss me lest I

fade away

Euphoria
Eutopia

Europe, eurturn
eugenic

euseless
eudaemonia

ah, phor naught, all for one

out, out, ****** spot

is joy strength
ening?
is love weak
ening?
was peace a state of mind

Thy heart shines with the light of a thousand beacons
As violent, vivid as a forest fire
In to its light my stray spirit is beckoned
Its radiant truth I crave and desire
Thou art the sum of thy passions
O guiding light to which we are wife
Compelling us to exquisite action
To succumb to the lust and love of life
Beacons light spreads by mimesis
Each pyre imitates the other's light
The fires are never still, in stasis
But ripple with cosmic delight
     O Heart, thy beacon strikes on truth
     The deepest fibre of my self is moved

How you have unfastened yourself from me molding red clay in many shapes.
Relentlessly fashioning versions of thing after thing. How I distort in every mimesis.

What you are looking for refuses to be found, though you spread the red everywhere.
Futility becomes of your fingers, too nervous for sewing.

The frequency of this life distorts on you, and you see less and less.

Sole star of sky, unthinkingly, in the dye of yellow, verses you in elocution.

Parody to mutable earth, shall the shadows of stars turn aside?

Belonging to time has its perilousness. In fervor you have underestimated the vulnerability
of the infinite.

We too have wounded, and been wounded.

The heart wavers at the threshold of an uncommon door.
Imperceptible boundaries have multiplied like trees.

How to be water. How to be, they seem to say, stretching small arms in every weak direction.

The angles have become too much for me.
Time is what I ask for, so I may ***** my words for a certain moment.

How unthinkingly you have carried on into an isolate realm.

All worlds pull from me now, as though offended.

Prithee darling - be my lover
We'll be in kindred philosophy - unite
For being enamoured - of passion
For all that tyrant interdict
You play - antihero
And I'll play - renegade
Wending to brighter day - we go
Eschewing shade
You play - Jacobean muse
And I'll play haughty heroine
Destinies - fuse
Intertwine
Two paths - never to be cleft
How ever can one light be bereft?
Loves light spread - by mimesis
My thesis
Of souls divine kinesis

I.

Magnificent Angel, wouldst thou ever tire,
From divine labour stoking heaven's fury fire,
Rest awhile thine mind with mortal, earthen kin,
Regale me with your godly revelries,
In which truth of Heart's magnanimity,
Where pure hearts 'twixt trials of time are twin.

II.

Then I shall fathom thy light, pure, good and true,
World more good for the guiding light of you,
-- Beacon's light spread by spirit's mimesis,
With those wings, doth dare and proud protect,
Love's plan, to which you genuflect,
The final purpose of your light's kinesis.

III.

I would not flinch from your sultry sight,
Adorned by sparks of brilliant light,
Raw cub of God with soul replete,
A door that's opened unto thee,
Not to be rescinded willingly,
Hurled to glory on divine feet.

IV.

If wishes ever granted, mine to dwell,
In aura of the Angel, splendid, swell,
As we, the cherubs, since long time ago,
Searching for rainbow, to and fro,
As our path takes us, high and low,
We, lived, felt love, but now we go.

V.

To truth, which rapture us in throe,
Sat brooding in desire and woe,
The flame of love be ours to stoke,
The right be ours to wield it high,
And swing it proud around the sky,
Its light resplendent and bespoke

The first word is the hardest:

Letters combining and colliding
to emerge from the vast,
empty whiteness of the page,
a facsimile, an imitation
of matter taking form.

Some say
form is what really matters:
pre-existent, eternal,
the God-force of creation
dictating ex nihilo
the process of becoming.

And some say
matter is what really counts:
seductive and inert,
a slumbering potentiality
murmuring softly to be
molded and transformed
into an ever-eroding effigy
of the permanence of Being.

But I say
only the Logos calls and answers --
in dialogue and soliloquy --
deep sounding to deep:

A cry is formed in the dark heart of matter,
and a poet is born to utter it,
struggling -- his whole being burning --
to speak the last things of existence
before his voice gives way
and the gift betrays him.

Yes.
The first word is the hardest
because it is the last word,
it is the only word,
coming into the world as a whimper
and passing out of it as a groan.

jealousy ponders its self worth
ugly and repetitive
the next phase is mimesis
synthetic fabrics collapse
the space-time diamond lattice
our sporadic garments
now garden themselves
we refrigerate our castles
while the frigid dawn insists
on spinning its web
next to your bed
friends dance in symphonic threads
musical souls and down tempos
our elbows and our noses
pressing a little closer to each other
as i am moving beyond myself
turning into nothing
the hourglass masquerades
and we become two sedated slaves
who increase the treasury of saponification
to be fair the soapiest stations
do provide clean clothes to the drowning
so we disrobed and then dressed ourselves again
in colors borrowed from the rainbow
the favor of the demigods may be wavering
but forever is abiding here and now
as we return each others surreptitious looks
from out the corners of our eyes
that must signify our wish to smother
the forlorn teenagers who are now wagering again
upon race-car drivers swerving around our fallen idols

Suffocated voices - sing
Louder - empowered by the sound -
Of Freedom near - in tortured ear -
That doth ring along the earth, up and around -
Slowly fortified by Love -
The voice is amplified -
As tyrants song that maim the throng -
Out of scarred mind stride -
The mind - is brighter - than the sun -
Through it the fires blessed -
Like Leopards leap and run -
Intention manifest -
She spreads her song by its lights mimesis -
A beacon unto a devils night -
Message spread by divine kinesis -
That bear aloft loves light -
He tried to squash her flame, dissuade -
Her from picking up the lute -
Nay I guess - he saw not her bless -
She's miles away playing the bardic flute -

So I was, sitting there
Watching it on the screen
The expressions
Of pain, of love, of wonder
And my heart felt for them
Each moment swelling in my chest
Rising to my eyes
This reflection of humanity
Or someone’s interpretation of it
Because the screen is all fake.
Faked, channelled, pulled from real experience
So maybe real in some way.
Someone’s art
“Life imitates art
Far more than art imitates life”
Or so said Wilde.
That idea, I think about it often.
The more years that go by
The more I wonder
If all the culture I consumed when I was young
That seemed so far removed from my life at the time
Increasingly becomes reality around me
No longer outlandish
Dramatic
But relatable.
I wonder, is this my natural life?
Or like Wilde suggested, have I become what I saw?
Am I the imitation
The fake.
Life found it’s expression through what was offered
Would I have found the fog so pretty if someone had not suggested it first?
Would love and life hurt so much, be so complicated if that was not what art told me?
Am I the artist or the art?