"morgana" poems
Do I relate to the post-postmodern
True-life voodoo incomes are hard-earned
If I put a hyphen between words
Does that spawn a new one like lovebirds
Isn't love the same word that I saw
Don't crows live like bandits and outlaws
Don't they have the outlook of bourgeois
Carry stolen crackers in their claws
There's no change that I couldn't change
Every change that I change always stays the same
I wanna sing with a slingshot serenade
I wanna donate change to a masquerade
I wanna die while I'm in the spotlight
I want my death to inspire a rewrite
I want to blur the lines of insight
I want to make them think that I'm their height
So give me all your red green yellow blue
If you can find a pool then I'll refract with you
You're a mirage and your favorite color's see-through
You're my fata morgana from this point of view
Are there any words for my freakshow feelings
Isn't sugarcoated terminology appealing
Wouldn't it be easier to represent the meaning
Of a hard to swallow concept with an arbitrary ceiling
Cryptic cultish crease in the catalog
Paranoia backtrack to analog
I can run much faster than I can jog
Magic circle summoning Chernobog
I can break the barrier of sound and space
With these essential elemental explanations in your face
But it doesn't matter everything I say will go to waste
Because the power of the mind is putting power out of place
Hindsight reflecting, teenagers texting
Late to the punch with the big money flexing
Let's settle this with a match in the ring
Or a match to the rope of a cannon firing
I wanna die while I'm in the spotlight
I want my death to inspire a rewrite
I want to blur the lines of insight
I want to make them think that I'm their height
I wanna hypnotize and paralyze
I wanna make them think that I'm their size
I wanna break their spirits drink their blood
I wanna **** their souls I wanna **** them good
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
A blue-eyed phantom far before
Is laughing, leaping toward the sun;
Like lead I chase it evermore,
I pant and run.
It breaks the sunlight bound on bound;
Goes singing as it leaps along
To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound
A dreamy song.
I laugh, it is so brisk and gay;
It is so far before, I weep:
I hope I shall lie down some day,
Lie down and sleep.
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I dreamt this dream before I could speak it out loud,
Between the signifier and imperfect signified,
With all kinds of broken hours and promises never kept,
I tried transforming what was often said in the past.
This place would seem so real,
Made for me, trembling in the middle,
With small and growing earthquakes.
I wrote myself again—my little truths.
Looking for missing lines without wings,
Carrying stones inside my mind,
In tight, frayed bags from my beating heart,
without hope for a final insight.
Perhaps I just passed through the steam
Of a swirling, repetitive, chaotic dance,
Seeking tickets, carving an elusive imprint
With my mosaic in this human code.
Five minutes quietly slipped by.
My earned time vanished.
I had my moments going along the roadsides,
Avoiding the end of this poetic journey.
I stay wrapped in a heavy coat of suspicion.
I saw Moirés crafting another delusion.
I found a small reward in an addictive cliché,
To feel short relief from what I call my reality.
I remember what I did before,
Choosing every day not to cast a stone
Into the center of what I can’t grasp
With my breathing, human existence.
And this breath was enough.
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 2:04 PM UTC
resuming textual trip
testing experimental procedures
visualizing model tsunami
augmenting facetious environment
catching abstract architecture
noticing rhythmic exchange
projecting subtextual database
airhorning reggae royalty
adding atypical party
resolving twitter question
noticing emotional mission
awaiting emotional dialect
installing metaphorical experiment
intensifying animated trip
displaying dynamic victory
programming abstract development
releasing emotional exchange
deriving fata morgana
glorifying referential sequence
intensifying facetious map
noticing harmonic trip
observing radical ratio
compiling nomadic message
predating google rebranding
reticulating facetious panda
using hyperreal feedback
exploring virtual panda
speculating graphic gallery
throwing mundane exception
targeting graphic experiment
replenishing emotional trap
localizing asemic animal
dropping rhythmic trip
propagating immortal experiment
displaying lowercase database
invading orange bubbles
crashing animated trip
running conceptual topography
remembering collapsed buildings
crashing hyperreal coverage
propagating hyperreal stipulation
finishing western library
envisioning neon tessellation
reciprocating network likes
processing animated device
releasing haptic quality
examining building seven
awaiting rhapsodical ratio
sampling death sauce
sensing lowercase clone
examining symbolic tour
processing potential development
encapsulating spatial lottery
displaying digital paragraph
reticulating theoretical source
perpetuating western paragraph
transmitting monochromatic structure
anticipating ambient quality
transmitting asemic environment
intensifying atomic quality
remastering history poem
keeping future light
hypothesizing eternal game
using future library
rearranging masonic language
transmitting masonic development
continuing ceremonial ritual
questioning party's legitimacy
deferring western coverage
finishing asemic hypertext
mollifying ostentatious presence
synthesizing allegorical icon
forming categorical unions
sketching app wireframe
programming immortal repository
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
In a different town.
The baked streets have thinner air.
The fata seem to belong less to Morgana than to the mountains.
The tall mountains that freeze
The water of the eyes to
The water of the roads a mile away.
The terrific air.
I can now only barely recall.
No sound, the film skipped,
Slightly off the projector track.
The dark insides of a native heritage.
The store with an open door.
The stern woman behind the white smoke counter.
Turquoise is expensive,
But no one buys enough for it to be in vogue.
A vogue might swallow all the sulfur
Sand.
The sharp nose,
Cheekbones that squint the little black eyes deeper inside.
I can see why they must have been afraid,
Though I’m not quite sure what I mean by “they.”
This town is different from any other one.
And you can feel it when the mountains
Pin their tongue into the sun.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 1:42 PM UTC
at what point in your life do you realize the futility of chasing the elusive
acknowledging all your past love stories are tragedies
stillborns, held briefly, remembered daily, for the rest of your life
to meet the paragon that matches your impossible list of requirements
the odds are against you, possible, just highly improbable
to find the unicorn on a merry-go-round of painted, wooden horses
mindlessly, repeating the cycle, searching for the one, in a universe of stars
how many times must you be pulverized in the online emotional meat grinder
craving the unconditional love, acknowledgment, validation of prince charming
to be kissed, caressed, cherished by the bad boy on the harley
romantic love is a dangerous illusion, a mirage in the desert, la fata morgana in your heart
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 5:58 PM UTC
My love, this is especially for you, I hope you will like it. With love from, Sylvia / Mijn lieve, dit is speciaal voor jou. Ik hoop dat je het leuk zal vinden, liefs van Sylvia.
as highest as the Chomolungma in Himalaya region
as magic as this Mount Everest correction
as huge as the Nightwatch of Rembrandt
as imposant as the Niagara Waterfalls when you shall land
as friendly as the Ricefields on Bali Island
as generous as the Space Needle together with Manhattan
as lovely as the puppet dolls my fiancé gave me in Jakarta
as beautiful as my wild Rose's voice when speaking about Indonesia
as wonderful as Serfaus at wintersport-season
as warm as Granada could be on Summerdays without a reason
as romantic as Venezia on dark nights
as cool as Paris sparkles in Autumnal lights
as truest as Jesus died on the cross at Calvary
my love for you so loyal as Plath's words, no fata morgana
so honest as Picasso's own Guernica
it means only most important and precious to you and to me,
this I tell to you as my only trustee and devotee.
Truest love ever known, most loyal ever shown !
I have told you all these with the help of God, amen.
Sylvia Frances Chan
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
O sweet illusions of song
That tempt me everywhere,
In the lonely fields, and the throng
Of the crowded thoroughfare!
I approach and ye vanish away,
I grasp you, and ye are gone;
But ever by night and by day,
The melody soundeth on.
As the weary traveller sees
In desert or prairie vast,
Blue lakes, overhung with trees
That a pleasant shadow cast;
Fair towns with turrets high,
And shining roofs of gold,
That vanish as he draws nigh,
Like mists together rolled —
So I wander and wander along,
And forever before me gleams
The shining city of song,
In the beautiful land of dreams.
But when I would enter the gate
Of that golden atmosphere,
It is gone, and I wonder and wait
For the vision to reappear.
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There once was a TV network
That made me want to exult
But now I am sad and despondent
And it’s mostly Steven Moffat’s fault
I enthusiastically started Doctor Who
Who’s chronology is twisted and bizarre
It seemed like such fun to travel through time and space with a man
Who used a blue box as his car
But soon the companions’ aspirations
To travel to planets and stars
Were crushed by the Void, lost love, and gargoyles
And the Doctor is lonely and scarred.
Not yet wise, I began watching Sherlock
His deduction left me amazed and bamboozled
He and John drank some tea, and solved crimes with glee
Although each case took quite some perusal.
They lived happily with their cool flat decorum
Mrs. Hudson made biscuits below
Then along came the menacing, mean Moriarty
There was nothing that he didn’t know.
Because of the fallacy that Sherlock’s a fake
He’s dead and John’s in the doldrums
The only thing done to commemorate him
Are John’s “I do believe in Sherlock Holmes”
Hoping for a show that was boisterous and happy
Instead of the peaceful, yet sad
I turned to the medieval Merlin
who was quite a cheery lad
He worked for the king’s son, Arthur
who eclectically chose his knights
There were sirs Lancelot, Gwaine, and Leon
The bravest people in sight.
Merlin used his job as camouflage,
His secret he did not divulge
for if they all knew he was a powerful wizard
In his execution King Uther would indulge.
Since Merlin’s destiny was to keep the prince safe
He faced many scary things
He would cower in fear, but when Arthur was near
He felt brave enough to sing
Merlin’s feelings for Arthur were obvious
But does Arthur feel the same way?
When Arthur deigns to exchange dialogue with him
It instantly brightens his day.
But Lancelot died doing Merlin’s job
And Arthur is in love with Gwen
Morgana, a wizard who was once Merlin’s friend
Is evil and wants Camelot dead.
So the Doctor is lonely and growing old
Sherlock left John all alone
And Merlin feels guilty and outcast
They’ve lost all the good they’ve ever known.
And I am left crying and angry.
How could the writers do this to me?
But still, they’re the best shows I’ve ever watched
And I’ll always love the BBC.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
an illusion,
a superior mirage,
one that is complex and
unusual,
is often the most beautiful
of all.
complexity is stronger,
more beautiful and more powerful than you
because you're just
simple and ordinary,
nobody wants that,
nobody wants you.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
There's one saying a start of civilization is a sign of life,
people questioned that life each day,
to hold,
and to create,
each day a mirage created to resembled an image of man,
what is this new phenomena they call mirage,
some say its created by a light,
other saying is a vision from god telling you an impending doom is coming,
we ask this constant question every day,
is this a mirage or signs.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 3:53 AM UTC
all kinds of odd sorts of stuffs
go on behind the red rock bluffs
agony resides in a small structure
way out in the valley
where it is rarely wandered
the dust and sand whirl around just so
that all the nymph minions
can move to and fro
in a seamless veil
safe from the pack hounds
that come and go
there is a translucent fata morgana
with cold as ice eyes
who hovers on hilltops
to remain in disguise
from an axiom seeker
exhorting reprise
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
perhaps a mirage is a dangling carrot
to keep us ever-seeking
perhaps our bodies are the freedom clothes
for our souls
and perhaps our sanity,
isn’t
sane at all
but a fata morgana
science has proven
the moon to be a
bell ---
hollow and resonant
for hours ---
a seismic anomaly
which sounds
when hit
perhaps science
is the fata morgana
and we are sane
after all
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 7:24 PM UTC
┈┏━╮╭━┈╭━-━-━--━╮
┈┃┏┗┛┓┃╭ⓞⓘⓝⓚ┃
┈╰┓▋▋┏╯╯╰━-━--━━╯
╭━┻╮╲┗━━━━╮╭╮┈
Fata Morgana !
Crunch the numbers and look at the data. I’m like:
Measurable outcomes for pleasurable incomes—
incorporate outsourced inhuman resources in-house. I’m like:
indicators for vindicators.
It’s all about the data, mama—
so man up, sit down, and move forward
like hard apps on software, like ram on a gigabyte. I’m all:
sit up, move down, man forward;
benchmarks as milestones, stone benches as mile-markers
measuring the change-talk: obstetric metrics
played out for pregnant pauses.
It’s about throwing out the carry-on
It’s about unpacking the lost luggage
It’s about documenting best practices of undressed actresses
until the data-driver fails the breathalyzer.
The data tells a story: memes of mastery cast in plastery.
DUCK the FATA (morgana) !
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
It's not about black and white
It's a grey
Like an earthquakes
It's cracking, falling down
Some thing blured goes real
And the real goes blur
It's not a ground anymore nor a land
It's a fata morgana
It's not a word or a sentences, nor a story
But a spell
Burning down all the mirage I lived with
And take me into the world
They called it reality
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
*How to write down a dream
when everything
was an illusion
How to make the story straight
when it has left
me in confusion
How to fill the blank paper
when my mind
had no idea
That this fata morgana
was something
I could not see
The beauty and pleasure
turned out to be
a total fake
From the moment
that I was
completely awake
So for the future
I have to ask you
please be kind
And live those
petty dreams of you
in your own mind*
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
the roaring lion inside
reduced to timid ash
***** sheets and empty hearts
calling out from the desert
fata morgana?
a call from the past...
if you were a cube on the sand,
with the hot desert wind
cooling
down
all
hopes
of reconciliation
a ghost of the past
that's what you've become
you chose to be
fly away you falcon,
find another prey
i'll hide until you come back
an illusion of being
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 1:51 AM UTC
Maybe it was a sugarspun fairytale. One that melts on your tongue before you ever experience it.
Maybe they thought it was harmless.
Maybe it was a castle in the sky. A castle in the clouds and they figured if they made it high enough, I would never reach. That if they took my wings, not even my thoughts would soar.
Maybe they thought it was harmless.
Maybe it was a paper dream that they lit up as soon as they had shown me. Or a Fata Morgana, gone as soon as I touched it.
Maybe the fates did not mean to be cruel.
But then again,
only beasts play with prey.
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 11:41 PM UTC
the aching loneliness that rises up into my throat, scratched raw with fire, and settles into my fragile rib cage as the most unwanted guest, has been there for as long as i can remember. my anxious, angst ridden youth has done little to put my soul at rest. perhaps it shall never rest.
i've never felt that i belong anywhere, for my soul grows tires if i remain in the same place for too long. i don't know if i'll ever find a place that i truly belong, but i hope i find it soon because the life i've been living is draining. so much so that i'd like to run away.
i am like the ocean, fickle and tumultuous, glimmering and dangerous. i can take you to strange place with exotic women and tropical delights, make you believe in every sight, every fata morgana, like it's the truth, and i can make you hurt. i can be cruel and unforgiving, showing no mercy for those who dare cross me. i can be a hurricane and sweep you up in a storm of unbridled passion and fiery rage. i can make you drown.
my dear, i am the lover you wish you had, the lover you wish you knew. i am the lover that would die for you.
i'll wait up for you on my throne in room thirteen, honey. i'll wait for you to come along and take a walk on the wild side for once; you'd like to think you're bad, nut i know in your heart you're soft. my soul won't wait long, so hurry up, boy, before time runs out.
don't you want to find heaven, honey?
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 7:29 PM UTC
Infrared light
black light secrets
blue battered sun
yellow
outrage,
tricksters in paradise
loading up
the gun
wild fire
caged in Ice
made it twice
as fun
beer bellied
acrobats
bouncing off the wall
blaring on
the run
caught the bus
to
Cambridge,
Eyebrows filling
the space
of another persons
world,
underlining
their names,
curious
questions
bright with colors,
the honey fist
of Isis biting a coin
for authenticity
pull me from the abyss,
endless sleep
these Maritime martyrs
at the expense of a soul
does she really know,
to what depths
we dive to save
time in squares,
trenches,
backwater streets
in tired boxes,
men throw shoes
at singing alley cats,
tears and thoughts
litter the sheets.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
i let her **** me.
slowly at first.
i felt the life leaking out of me into the thirsty ground.
it was painless.
she killed me so well i wanted her to do it again.
i ask myself
how did i get here?
how did i make her my self control?
the question are useless now.
i'm trickling to my last bit.
i've tasted the euphoria of death.
i have taken death by surprise.
she is not the murderer.
i am.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC
floating:
the paradox precarious
betwixt sinking and swimming
it is an act of non-action
therein streams of consciousness
the lotus transcendent
free by schism of schema
heading knowhere at the speed of might
carry on without baggage,
delicate, sleek and slight
permanence renders irrelevance;
reality is a slide show
of fata morgana
being:
the paradox precarious
betwixt seeing and believing
the lotus transcendent
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
It's been awhile but still
I wake up entranced
Stuck on your mannerisms
Locked in a dance with your memory
Like you could pop in any minute for dabs
Sorry my heart is so weak
I wish I could rekindle my inner fire
If only just to call you back into my life
To douse it again
Suspect that certainty
You cut me so deeply
By mistake
In passing
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC