"monism" poems
Philosophical epistemology strumming adventures
Albeit, coherent mental decoding stratifications structured
Supposedly our world rests in our minds, revolving knowledge
An entwine of conceptual abstract flowing within oneself
The mind in the “I” the “I” a reality lived in my experiences
George of Leontini, a mine mind approving solipsism exploring innatism
Imaginative insights that nothing exists, the secrets secreting secrets
The knowledge behind the veils that remains un-communicated
A reverse of normality and known existences, moral disposition
Hypothesis of depersonalizations, adventures of self internalization
Justifications for what lies outside the Medulla Oblongata
Skepticism and just alternatives to western philosophy
Subjective unapproved experiences only robust in one’s mind
Descartes abstraction of inner experiences, reciprocated paradigm
Intuitively, perceived lived formulations of "Cogito Ergo Sum"
Psychological conscious undoubted individualistic thoughts
Berkley explored perspectives that physicality is an embodiment of the mind
The mind a decoding visualizer, that encompass the non-existent
An idealism marriage of ‘metaphysical’ and epistemological philosophy
The intense esoteric “dualism” verses the fiery “monism” reality
Mind boggling differentiated truths bleeding with blinking unresolvable hypothesis
The jiggered methodological, streamlining the un -logic sequential beats
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
“What type of poem am I?”
I am as formless as the clouds,
and as elegiac as the silence,
in the itinerary of the noise.
I am not a classic
written by the author, God.
The rhythms of my verses are supplied
by the parable of their tears.
I am not in me,
though I abide within myself.
I am but a colour,
whose colours have worn away.
Maybe I was written as
an ethical effect of modern art.
Or maybe I was not written
but just replicated from the lives of others.
I wish I could read the critics’ minds.
Is it true that a poem cannot read anyone?
I loathe the way they recite me,
pretending to understand me.
Maybe I am
the monologue of my rhymes.
Or maybe I am
the narrative of my own life.
However much they hate me,
I am that poetry they can’t write.
I am the phantom of the world
crawling, with a rose in the hand
in the boulevard of the thorns.
However much they praise me,
I am only a drop of verse
drawn up by time
to become the formless clouds
in the wilderness of the literary sky.
O Poet! O my maker!
What type of poem am I?
O strangers! O my readers!
What sort of poem am I?
I wish I could read myself
and discern my spirit.
Is it true that a poem
cannot read a poem?
“Am I a poem?”
or am I just a rhymed hoax?
This cyclic curiosity goes on eternally.
I am lost in a synthesis between
the dualism of my readers
and the monism of my maker.
No one knows what it is like to be a poem.
No one knows how vague its core is.
There is nothing as genuine as me.
There is nothing as deceptive as me.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
in most instances there is no real
criticism - just the debate as old
as the life of Aristotle, so lagging
behind modern liberty -
the deviations of the two extremes,
the nicely polished marble
and the coarse flint - a debate
concerning nouns -
one man will venture into marble
synonymousness -
another man will venture into
flint synonymousness - but still
the monism of saying one thing
adversely or conversely -
one layer on top of another,
like a wedding cake - sooner will
the adverse noun usage emerge -
sooner too will the converse noun
use emerge - and make battle for
what society is entitled to -
well, both! the pleasantries of the nouns
surrogate and mother, damnable
essentials of two homosexuals and
a ********** - i know, the former and
all the pleasantries and pigmented macaroons,
the latter and dirges and the dingy
back alley - one stands up for pleasantries
the other for the coarse mountain view -
one sees a mountain of the jagged panorama,
the other a normal distribution curve -
both have peaks, one's a woo *** slide on
your *** the other a carefully calculated
descent - so you wonder how certain words
are encoded to create a certain emotion -
one thing to understand a string of words:
do this do that, walk over here, walk over there -
and the other string of words:
feel this, feel that, think this, think that -
perplexing - mostly the dichotomy of seeing
and hearing - a dualism is an acceptance of
the two extremes as a constant -
a dichotomy is a lack of acceptance of the
two extremes, they are never consolidated -
dichotomy represents an active game of ping pong,
dualism represents: a ping pong table,
two ping pong rackets and a ping pong ball...
but no actual activity - dualism in theory,
dichotomy in practice.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
why would ever thought become a therefore of being, a parallel pairing, well, i can imagine why, uncertain thinking gave birth and girth of uncertain being, but uncouple thinking from being and couple it to knowledge, how sooner the reminders encountered whereby expressing thinking with being as equal is lost, and thinking after the divorce from being finds a second partner, namely knowledge: and the men who stare at goats? sooner thinking and knowledge coupled than thinking and being, i do know that the former example eradicates thinking per se, but it also leaves us with pure intuition / knowledge / automation, which means less concern for a subsidiary of broken bones and unaffected brains to be worth a coupling - the former attempt eradicates this shadowy narcissism that the latter invigorates with how the outside is already defaulting the inside with c.c.t.v.
you will not eat the fruit
of the tree of knowing good from evil,
since upon eating the fruit
you will not think -
you will know but will not think -
and this will be a demise
you will claim to be supreme
as the foremost expression adequate -
thus upon eating the fruit
the wages of your labour
you will know more than you desired,
and will too think less than
could be inspired - not a question
of writing a pillar-like autobiography
but a question of writing a biography at all..
to eat from a tree of knowledge:
whether dual or by mono inspired -
serves no bearing -
hence the modern fable akin to brothers
Aesop and Grimm,
that he who eats the fruit of the tree of knowledge
will not eat the fruit of the tree of thought,
hence the dichotomy rather than a duality,
hence the monism rather than the monasticism -
and he who eats of the tree of knowledge
will look upon a pauper in a scene of
agricultural foreboding with much insolence -
for he who eats from the tree of knowledge
whatever the vector, whether into zenith
of good, or whether into the zenith
of evil, will know neither being reached,
for thought will become the orient conjunction
of or being accumulative:
that good (thought) will be as puzzle-muddled
with evil (knowledge) as may be allow -
or as the Libra testifies - that knowledge is
evil and thought via continuum narratio is good;
but still gladly i too fabricating celestial bodies
with a lifespan of cats aged prior to 30 (if pedigree).
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC