"misnomer" poems
but have you noticed, have you noticed how all mental health problems
stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category;
i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns
being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers;
it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns.
it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days
and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases
attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs
thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness
the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity
of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression
of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality,
the aether virus attacks the pronoun
on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use
of pronouns, when a king casually says
of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively;
so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong
that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber
and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering?
the pronoun category is weak from day one,
because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed
into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought
without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge
rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point
of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer
to have weak thinking and strength in knowing,
for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing,
i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall.
so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia
attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one
will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain
clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals -
while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals,
but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals!
but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness,
in that segregational aspect of things "sorted,"
why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage
compared to a strength in other grammatical categories?
why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns?
the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked,
and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king
into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked
and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself
fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic
as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
I TOLD THAT ************ TO SWING ON ME,
TAKE A CHANCE
MOTHEFUCKER,
TAKE A CHANCE,
I WANNA GET MY *** KICKED,
LET ME
CHILL HERE ON THE EARTH
WHILE YOU STAND OVER ME,
SPITTING
AND
DISSING.
BUT WHEN I GET UP
IMMA BE MAD
ENOUGH
TO SCREAM
AND ****
IMMA BE
A MANIAC
ON YOUR DOORSTEP,
IMMA BE
A ******
WITH NO CHANCES
WHEN I'VE GOT THREE.
SO WHEN YOU SWING ON ME ************
SWING ON ME
AS YOU TRY AN CALL ME A *****
JUST KNOW THAT IMMA COME AT
YOU
WITH A THOUSAND GRENADES
IN MY FINGERTIPS,
AND WHEN YOU DON'T SWING,
AND DON'T DO ****
I'LL KNOW HOW YOU'RE MADE,
IMMA KNOW THAT ALL THAT **** YOU TALK
IS JUST A MISNOMER.
MY FINGERS GRIP MY HEART
AS MUCH
AS THEY GRIP FISTS.
KNOW THAT IMMA CATCH YOU
WITH A RIGHT HOOK
FULL OF VEINS
AND A MAGAZINE
WITH YOUR NAME ON IT.
CHECK ME,
IMMA HIT UP SOMETHIN TONIGHT,
IMMA BRING MY FISTS
LIKE BURNERS,
MAKE YOU FEEL THE FIRE OF HELL,
CAUSE I'M ON THE EDGE,
AND THIS GIRL ****** UP MY HEART,
MY GRAMMA IS AT THE END OF HER ROPE,
MY MAMA IS STILL POOR,
MY SISTER STILL DOESN'T KNOW HERSELF,
AND MY HOMIES
ARE FAR AWAY,
FARTHER THAN YOU CAN SEE,
SO IMMA CHILL ON THIS PULSATING LEVEE.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:30 PM UTC
*concerning the pop. narrative -
i'm a wordsmith after all -
someone gives me the raw materials
of islam and (a rainbow) of affixing -phobia
and i can't seem to hammer
the **** thing into shape...
it's, foremostly: a pseudo-phobia.
a misnomer of the phobia compound.*
for a people who have an "irrational" fear
of islam, it seems strange that the same
people gave birth to some form of rationality -
let's just call it islamophobia
not an irrational fear - but rather:
and irritation -
the irritable fear of being suddenly forced
into the extremities of living the daily life -
when something unexpected happens -
mind you, the people who have been forced
into these situations: stop their want
for adrenaline in a base jump, from an aeroplane,
or bungee jump off a bridge.
islamophobia is not a "phobia" as such,
it's not irrational - it's just irritating -
but then again you don't actually believe
a spider to be a irrational creature (arachnophobia),
you don't believe an open space with lots of people
(agoraphobia)
to be an irrational circumstance -
you're facing yourself being irrational in
both circumstances -
since the phobia hides an actual rationale -
islam?
that's much harder - since you're
being "irrational" while someone is actually
being "rational" -
when in fact there's no escaping
that contra of you being "rational"
and the muslim being "irrational" -
not one side is either rational or irrational:
the spider and the open space filled
with people already stated:
you're being irrational;
the fear of spiders is irrational -
but there is no rationality from the perspective
of the spider: what does a spider
know about rationality? jackshit!
there is no such thing as islamophobia:
because you're not being irrational about
what has its own rationality -
its own monologue and intra-dialogue...
whoever coined this stupid word
is as dumb as their rationality allows them
to make enough people use it;
it's only an irrational fear: if there is no
rationale behind it;
point being: there's rationale behind islam,
ergo there is no such thing as
islamophobia.
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
"Grief"
The label given to sorrow I cannot describe
The black cloud under which I hide
The sated reaper by my side
"Bereaved"
The name given to my new found state
The sadness still to raw to rate
When, too early, he became late
"Mourning"
The word given to the crushing despair
The dawn of darkness none can share
Which I can't believe is ever fair
"Loss"
The misnomer given for those now taken
Love and life already forsaken
The sleep from which he won't awaken.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 9:19 AM UTC
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Scared, to let the words die, he hid, amid the languid luxuries of solitary structuring, lavished of the jaded and anguished lines, for lines melodrama, of the deviled days, of state, of mind, in fate, in kind, of the nether commas, devoid in honest ignorance of written words, dying on the caterpillars, cocooned, in all that's assumed, lost, in metamorphosis, never knowing this, is a dream, within a dream, of hope, clinging with stinging fingertips, ears ringing in the ripplits of a synesthesic pulse of visual signals, subliminally sounding the sirens, of solidarity, in the silent screams, of the sun rising, writhing in wanton seduction of my functions laying the heartened words of dead birds, falling from the sky, hardened in sloven cries, to justify, the means, tapping out on the screens, of a misnomer, a loner, in a coma, phoning you from the corner to warn ya, of the storm, in words prone to patience, in imaginit immaculance of the limitless limits, of livid lovers loving each-others lullabies, lolly-gagging in the illegibility, of our lucidity in the pity of leveled lofts, lovely-ly, levitating in elevating thought, fraught with passionate poetry, of ghostly words, blurred in the debilitating reasoning of reasonable reason, seasonally.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 2:14 AM UTC
Altered by the winds laced with a threnody tune,
life in the northern woods will never be the same without its bloom.
The deceased puppet master continues to pull the strings of the dehiscence heart,
one of this game is forced to take part.
The ears of an indecisive mind take in the plaintive sound,
which provides an ongoing reminder of how these feet are forever bound to this ground.
With the chances of escaping this monochromatic box slims,
one might begin to take a swim.
The ideal way of living becomes a compromise,
the old personality leaves only the eyes.
Shed away in a abscission fashion,
and along with that goes all the passion.
Sitting down to confabulate with a higher knowledge,
carry on the dreams of going to college.
Storybook barriers leave no saltant mood.
Being passed by society is quite rude.
A misnomer indeed,
being labeled wrong because of greed.
Hunger of such has taken a life,
of one upon a lake that was never a wife.
Letters that hold such wicked silence,
that can never be undone even with science.
This blue body surrounded by an invisible malediction,
or maybe that is all just fiction.
He has nothing left from his unmanly lies,
upon keeping secrets he thinks he is wise.
Knowing it all is never enough,
but with an abecedarian brain on might just call it a bluff.
Eventually farewells must be given without hate,
and one might hope to return as if all was in a somniferous state.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Bed sheets labeled wrinkle-free,
skin stroked
with lotions from
bottles stamped,
“reduces age-lines.”
Crevasses form
and crows’ feet caress eyelids;
folds spread
as little rivers
from her mouth.
New lotions,
more massaging
feed her desire
for perfection. Her glance
catches flaws others ignore.
Love falls short.
Heat from her lover’s body
warms her palms;
fetid kisses barely
brush her lips.
Wrinkle free love;
another misnomer.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 8:05 AM UTC
I've got the rip down just right
The soft tear, grated misnomer
Perforated here in my middle
Like I was meant to come apart
Out of view
Hot with friction
Hot with longing
Kinetic energy
Shredding
Dividing
The low sound of cutting construction paper
Thick with each blade passing
A sharp kiss
Maybe
Gripping like this
The right tool for suicide in the wrong hands
I have hands like those
******* I'm dissolving in a tear drop
It never left the eye
The sting feels like drowning
Waterless
and
in pieces
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
god i love fiddling with Kant...
i still don't understand why
Nietzsche thought he was
a senile old bachelor in the end...
**** similis...
the grand APE...
now...
is the ape a creature:
a priori,
os is the ape a creature:
a posteriori?
then again, i was once accused
of speaking out of my own
*** by a slob Jew in
Edinburgh,
as i was also jested at
with the words
'we'll crucify you'
at a UCL drama take on
the plight of the Palestinians...
**** me...
motley crue dr. feelgood style...
i guess when the last of
the last Holocaust survivors
are dead...
the gloves come off
and we can... rattle the bare-knuckle
slicks...
nope... i always preferred a drunkard's
slang to an ass-licking
****** addict's slack;
but don't get me wrong,
i could read a Burroughs' novel
in a day...
just... drenched....
in (a) hypnotic chaos of juxtaposition;
frantic vagary...
like watching a **** of a fly
darting here and there;
p.s.
(adjective & noun -
so, no... frantic vagary is not
a "misnomer"...
it's a doubled emphasis).
ah... the benefits of acquired
rather than the native
usage of the, spreschen -
hen hen... no spre(h)- -shen.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
I'm sorry God, but they've taken you prisoner.
Their words indubitably once streamed from your lips,
as your fingers projected beams of light,
falling from the Heavens:
people dumbly read your signs so literally.
They've closed you in a book and recalled your name
when such mentioning benefited their own name,
hypocrites they are;
for there was never a hypoChrist
capable of making wine a commodity
and bread a demon,
unless it is gluten-free.
How your intentions are clouded in veils.
****** in your name.
To glorify you.
Pushing scared young lovers--two men-- against barbed wire fences
and insisting they are sinful, foul--better off dead.
Maybe the hate is right
because it wins ten times out of nine.
God, they constantly judge each other
when they don't believe in the "right" version of you.
And they represent a new hipper you for the youth:
they want to understand you, when really they just
want to be understood.
Some days I walk past strangers and wonder,
"Who do you want me to be?"
Am I not Muslim enough unless I cover my hair?
Am I too Moz-lim if I say Allah and mean God--
just God, not whatever inane misnomer you'll tell me I really believe
you to be.
I think you tire of our piddle paddle,
how we puff up our chests, only to blow out a tiny breath of air,
that in one instant you can extinguish:
the candle had no choice.
We think we give the world meaning.
We feel so special when we hear ourselves think,
but sometimes, I wish you'd speak instead of all these false prophets.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
Optimal monstrance languishing vast tractive icky yantra grandiose plenary juxtaposition repertoire blasphemously exoneration zealotry sensorium unary heuristic nimbus warranty acerbity kinesiology xenobiotic corporeal quantify finite
Ornate mendacity lurid vauntness transition icon yenta genuflection despicable plenipotentiary jaunt rendition blatant eulogy zygosity subliminal unbridled holistic nimiety wrangle asperity kinetics xanadu conjunctive quixotic fictitious
Opulence moribund licentious vector tellurian ichor yerk glitch deplorable pandemic jurisprudence rectitude brusque edifice zoic suborn uncanny homogeny nihilism wrest acuity kleptomania xylem conjugational quagmire fornications
Ostensive morsel longevous venery terrestrial ictus yoni gestational denigrational plagiaristic jettison recital belligerent extemporaneous Zephyr substantiation unfathomable huckster notorious wrought agility Kobold xylophagous coercion quintessence faux pas
Ordinate meticulous loquacity verve tantamount incus yore genre denouement portentous jeopardy radix bodacious exacerbational zilch subtlety usurping horizon nostrum wroth articulation kowtow xerophilous critique quantum flamboyance
Odious meatus lingam volition telepathy –ics yowl gesticulation douceur potentate jocular repartee bartizan exigency zoomorphic solace ultimatum hornswoggle notch wreak autonomy kangaroo court xenophile credibility quasi flippant
Ornery motivity lucidity votary talismanically idolatry yogi gimpy dastardly paltry jouncy ramify beastly enmity zoolatry sultry unity ***** nugatory wrathy artistry keeky xylography critically queasy flighty
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
Aniu,
dostałem słuchy na temat grafiki - nie jestem Surrealist'ą z poprzedniego wieku (tzn. dwudziestego), to już mineło... może i też miałbym pozory sfobody by skrytką zza popularną sztuką miałbym brać jakiegoś malarza na front jak by to było wydanie Ortodoksji zwane Penguin Publishing House, ale wolałbym mieć pod uwage geneze, tzn. kompromis braku koloru i tą nadrentą komplikacje modernizacji na tle "programming" szyfrem komputera - a ten kompromis? szyfr chemika... wiem że to może brzmić zbyt contra idei ładnego obrazka czy tez ikonoklazm'u wedle sukcesu sprzedarzy książki - ale jak orginał to orginał, bez kiszeczki, bo kto tak naprawde chce pokazać tważ niechaj pokarze ją niż maske pierw - wiec myśle o notatkach z sfer chemii w goły-trakt poezji. przesyłam jeden przykład, trzymam notatki inne takrze gotowe, ale to jeden przykład; nie chce sie chować pod skórą innych artystycznych wybryków - szczegółowo poza gruntem orginału pisma jako malunek pierw, a pismo po (ksiązka to nie Boeing 747: obraz pierw a dzwięk po - tzn. dzwięk pierw, a obraz po) - a więc i też skreślam zaufanie co do piękna malowidła jako przeciw tego samego niby ambasador'a dającego ochrone pod tytułem: brzydastwo wiersza konieczne; wole by jedno z drugim miało zaufanie, czy też wpomnienie obojga na począt i na koniec: na trasie wątpień i zarysów warte twarzy w publicznym miejscu poza oh ah ah oh galerii. a więc zakończe - inne e.g. prześle jutro - ten jako prolog w temacie: o co mi chodzi.
Mateusz.
p.s. oczywiście ominołem ę czasem, lecz jest zachowane w przykładach głębin - ale to nazwe proto-ortografia Polaka poza Polską, takie potrzebne lustro w Angielskim 's - czyli liczby mnogej co nawet tłumacz by powiedział: sprechen Deutsche?
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
I stand still in this room, to look across at you, and grin.
You don't have to understand what this means...
You make me re-evaluate my values.
I'm not sure what this feeling is without the butterflies...
And the heart-stops... and the blushing cheeks.
I don't know this girl who lets you scrunch her face.
And laughs... and plays... and doesn't plan every single second...
I don't think you understand the significance,
Of my words, of my relaxed disposition...
I don't look at clocks when I am around you.
I don't need your affections every minute...
Co-dependency has become enjoyment of company.
Sleeping alone isn't empty, next to you is simply a perk.
Sleeping with you, not a demand, but a pleasure.
Who is this girl, grinning at you across the room...
Letting you tickle her sides... telling you truths
TRUTHS... I don't think you understand the significance of that word...
Of MY words. There are no walls in my words. (only in my chest)
And "I Love You's" aren't spilling from my lips.
And I don't think we understand the significance of that.
I fall hard, blindly, way too quickly.
But I'm not falling right now. I'm standing here, eyes WIDE open.
I see all of you, and I wait... and patience is not a characteristic of mine.
And I don't think you understand the significance of this...
I feel something is happening here...
A realization; one I had read somewhere in a Jonathan Safran Foer novel.
About falling in love so ordinarily, that you begin to think it isn't love at all...
But something much more ordinary.
And.. this is different... but what it is evades me.
I can't diagnose this as "the real thing," because I only know what the "real" thing is not...
Being away from you isn't painful, it just isn't preferred.
I like that I don't have to hold my breath when we're apart.
But, I feel my facade fall away when I walk through your door.
As if there is no need for pretenses in a room with you...
I'm not that girl, and I don't want you to think I am...
I want to use big words, and giggle at their superfluity.
Let you laugh at my pretentiousness- a misnomer- as I'm not faking anything at all.
I like that I look at you... and I don't know exactly what you're thinking.
And I don't think you understand the significance of that...
Control, let go... and I'm not terrified...
And I don't feel like a half, not quite a whole...
But, I'm learning how to be, and who to be...
And I simply have the pleasure of having you along for the journey.
I'm afraid I don't understand the significance of...
these words, of the realization that you will read them...
that you will try to qualify each adjective... and understand each verb...
And dissect me...
and I will try to explain, a kindness I so rarely attempt...
and I might not make any sense, and I might not know how you feel...
And... I might just be fine with not knowing.
I might just stand, and grin, and not tell you why.
But, not for not knowing,
But... for not needing to understand.
Yet.
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
Shrouded in Liberty
it moves across the land
gorging on the hearts
and faith of
small ones;
they whose homes
invaded by the cause,
depleted of life,
of love,
of choice,
find protection
a misnomer.
Buried deep in details
of little consequence
where minutia
is a governor
stealing choice
to feed the appetite
of this machine.
Where has gone
the mighty power
that once united all;
will Freedom
end this war
before a mighty fall?
Bring back the ghosts
that won it well
the proud, the free and brave;
their spirits needed in our own
to lead us from our grave.
Apathy would bury us,
cloaked in ignorance of bliss
while shrouded in Liberty
the beast deceives;
No army advancing
but what we're sold,
driving back the small ones
step by step;
the edge of a grave
ready for us to slip
into darkness.
Aug 23, 2015
Aug 23, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
I back peddle from a paper pedestal, hoping for the best, hoping you don't intend to inspect the wreckage I have left.
I am temptation at its test, an exclamation on contempt, collecting the regrets to my exemptions under stress.
A misnomer to my bets, against the better judgments I neglect, I'm set in my ways, in lucid forays, I've let from my veins,
and I've slept, the whole ******* way.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
Let the mountain lion eat me.
Let it tear me limb from limb.
It does not wish me malice;
It just doesn't want to die.
Let buzzards hover over me.
Let them salvage what is left.
They mean me no ill will.
They're just trying to survive.
But my fellow man who shoots me,
who doesn't know my name,
and waves his flag of freedom,
but kills those of different-colored skin.
Patriots of different lands
and speak in different tongues
know not that they are brothers,
but think of them as others.
Mankind is a misnomer.
There is no kindness here.
How blind they are as
they drop another bomb.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
May 16, 2023
May 16, 2023 at 9:43 AM UTC
I had my phase of finding things
and picking them up,
of wanting to turn them in
but not having the courage,
a little butterfly charm at the bottom
of the pool and I was always
scared to put that much pressure
on my ears but someone
was missing their wings
so I dove,
and I was missing wings too
so I came up sputtering and coughing
and afraid to talk to anyone
with the authority of Lost and Found
so I left my conscience drowned
and the wings closed in a fist.
And I found another thing, a
butterfly charm again,
mocking me,
and I stayed up and hoped
the guilt would fly away
but 'social butterfly' is a misnomer.
I had my phase of refusing to eat
anything inside of which I couldn’t see
even grapes had to be peeled
and I would marvel at the spiky lines
tearing through each one,
angry veins
in something so soft and sweet
my raisins and my juice
my Friday-night wine substitute
seemed so childish to me
until I knew about the spikes
and watched as they grew
inside myself
I had my phase of being me,
and it is isolating and spiky
and you don't like it
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
which period shall I resound the four
verses one, the rhyme? shall I use parentheses
or just write free, might I space
or italicize or leave this un-glamorized?
I walk down the long six-story concrete steps
a step at a time divining
the barren apartment
the govt spends
its money on above hovering
You think I want to live here
in this danger rat infestation
its free but that don't make me happy
I have a baby
and the world calls me a freeloader
obviously, I have decided to
write this in stanzas
it doesn't flow like the steps
this woman walks down daily
I do my best
sometimes I sleep with men when the cupboards bare
I decided to break the flow up
for why
I don't know
I have gone two weeks without diapers before and my baby
I would do anything for her so don't judge me. I
am not a *****
I am trying to survive.
Again I interrupt her story to inject-
poetry has to make a difference, it often doesn't rhyme, it
isn't made to be syllables and meters.
It is to make a difference. Let me shut up.
let her speak.
I didn't mean to bring a child into this hell. But I gave in
to one night of weakness, Now I am stuck on the sixth floor here in this bleak *** building with no hope no
idea how I might make her life better.
I have tried god.
All I have now are the streets.
The streets are brutal.
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
/ *are there any misnomers in the representation
of language, only, and only within the confines
of phonetics? sure... spelling is not exactly
arithmetics... but is it?*
/ trance
as the "misnomer"
of the prefix trans...
oh my god,
current english -
and the golden
age of chaos -
and that nashville twang
in an american blonde's
voice: like a banjo...
gott ist tot:
kommen die titan, la(s)chend.
/
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
I'm intoxicated inside this tragedy,
it weighs in my palms.
paints something timid
and thick like a calligraphy pen.
I try to write the words that keep me sane
and try to rationalize falling in love again.
but can I carry the weight?
will my palms be able to hold onto
both the pen and still maintain the penmanship
or is this dynamic too graphic
too unrelenting
and messy?
who will I become when the ink dries?
will I smudge this pain
onto the mouths of others?
or will my silence
be enough of a concealer-
or will my silence
be but a fashion accessory
that I wear on my wrist.
this fear it has no use for me anymore
it is just taking up space now.
I must find something to make it all worth it
something that looks a bit more pretty.
do I continue to carry this with me
when it is all I have ever known?
or do I learn to let it go?
so I write until the pen runs out of ink
and I seem to run out of stories.
maybe I'll make it out in one piece
or maybe I will make a piece out of it.
either way this is where the fear stops.
somewhere between lost earrings
and the stain of alcohol the next morning-
I have found something.
It's stuck behind my snaggle tooth
and beside the lump in my throat.
it's called salvation
it's called ambition
it's a misnomer that spells out the sound of my own voice
I will spill myself as ink spills on paper
and I will unfold, over and over again.
I will make more than a story out of this malice.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 8:02 PM UTC
a madwoman's bra fit entirely a flaw as
a greenbrier there she needn't to true but
to her on this roof by the stream then on
the way with her wickedness in boots
as she reverberates mountains upon her
stockings and lively spirit exhibited by taut
*** and misnomer of any malcontented rap
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC