"narrators" poems
(Note: the italics are the narrators thoughts)
Dearest Love,
Are you okay all alone?
I miss you with all my heart.
*No, I miss you with all the hearts in the world
you are the only fish in the sea for me.*
I love it here in paradise. I just wish it wasn't for work.
I hate it here with all my heart. I dread the lack of your presence.
If only you could see the sky as the sun sets.
It reminds me of your eyes, and I cry everyday.
I hope the distance didn't cause you to forget me and pick another lover, just kidding. I know you wouldn't do that.
You wouldn't... right... cause if you did, I'd die.
Well anyways dearest love, I hope to see you soon.
I'll book tickets for you now, even if it takes my life savings just to see your face.
I wish you were here.
Love,
More than any quantity of love imaginable.
Your one true love.
I hope...
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
If you fancy
a cheap thrill,
I suggest you
buy erotica read on CD.
The narrators never disappoint.
Listen to it only in your car.
Be sure to take the route
with one too many stoplights—
teeming with all of
the self-righteous pedestrians
who think they always warrant
the right-of-way.
Roll down
all of your windows.
Turn the volume up
to a number that will
allow you to suitably share.
Employ a smirk of
the most contented caliber,
& bank on making
someone’s ********* day.
*('Cause, no matter how you skin it,
we’re all some kind of human.)*
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
/ nietzsche wrote
his *ecce ****
book...
now?!
apparently we're all supposed
to write a book, entitled
mea culpa... (?)
i just want an authenticity
of using the index,
index finger,
and being able
to point...
without sacrificing
the ownership
of a shadow attachment...
and how
does the víšégrād group
(oh i'm into linguistic
sabotage,
writing such a word,
treating it as a bomb,
and knowing the "nuance"?
well...
the manchester mob,
the panic,
and what is the concept
of islam if not advocacy
for literacy? no? really?!)
invite the bulgars... (?)
like a birth of a 2nd. yugoslavia...
or the shift of
the 2nd holy empire
to the, "left" in copernican
"terms"...
there are the narrators,
the observers,
the critics,
and the: chanced eyes on the mess...
no... in the collectivist / corporate
mind-sent?
mea culpa is not on
the agenda...
"we" have already
stressed the situation past
the mea culpa:
come: ecce ****
and the crucifixion /
guillotine.
come the bulgars...
and why am i not expressing
an intellectual ben hur
of an index finger?
managed to punch myself
20 times in the face
and give myself a plum beneath
the eye?
so what's wrong with
"flexing" attributing
the tongue to an index finger
"exasperation"?
so few books are actually
ecce **** orientated...
always the mea culpa,
never, never, ever,
tua culpa:
ergo?
ecce ****
shh...
quiet...
just mention the concept
of mea culpa
to elißabeth fritzl
how much of masochistic
"moralißing" does it have
to take place, trans-temporal
and justifying
the mono-spatial realm
of a "past", and, "now"
before being crucified
is no longer deemed
the same as labouring with
a hammer, or a chisel?!
i say that: metaphorically
frothing at the mouth.
firt i learned to throw a punch
onto my face...
give myself a plum just beneath
the eye socket:
now i know the mea culpa mantra,
as i know the existence
of the index finger, being
differentiated from the fist...
and?
the tua culpa mantra.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
Watching documentaries about your trendy bands.
The 'Creative Process'. My shaking hands.
I'm inspiration and envy and my own constant shame
Because I'm still Lost to Larsson but by a new name.
I find meaning in nothing and nothing is mine.
I find meaning in water, in four inked red lines.
I fixate and form cycles, I'm Beckett's star act.
I make all these references, I muddle all that.
I'm an artist, I read, these aren't my own thoughts.
I'm not troubled, just open,
And I'm not really lost.
So what can I believe in? Hell, what can anyone?
**** God. **** 'The Classics'
I'll believe in being young.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 9:16 PM UTC
LIFE
I ask you as I begin, how would you describe LIFE?
For me the word "Euphoria" comes to mind in a weird sense.
Have we become our own narrators forbidden to live our own rehabilitated LIVES?
Does LIFE for some have no meaning, where laws have incarcerated in the hearts of people who declare our own existence?
We somehow fly a flag of nations, of countries what does it represent?
Peace new LIFE or a pushchair war?
Seems to me LIFE has become a class of its own distinction, never knowing its own ending.
Is money the ultimate ruler of our hormonal LIVES?
At the end do we desire what we fear the most?
LAZA 09
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 3:23 AM UTC
*box ***** box! no one ever said bare x-rayed knuckle rough up, but my tongue ain't just an oyster, so here's to a champagne flute ***** and an oyster shell tilted for a slurp ultra crescendo, a runaway: writing philosophy lets you explore the many narrators that are impotent creating characters, while fictive narration has many characters and a few dimensions of narrations, like the *** in the city gall said: newspapers are printed, they're not supposed to convey stories, or be the post-modern basis for a skeletal anastrophe of storytelling.*
you will not get any more artists
when you educate blanks
to canvas a Gucci with a brothel
of colours that might be tamed
into the anti-artist vocabulary deciphering
cubism... brothel of colours?
well **** is red, **** is brush,
you get an orchestra of vowels
with hues, pink is for arson,
the other pink is for fish against stream,
they never air-guitar bass rhymes or
solos, it's a shame, bass guitar is more
akin to drums and therefore more memorable
than brown-nosing vocals and lead guitars...
well coral red became gangrene green
when the snorkelling offshoot to finding
the titanic wreckage took off...
i said the titanic rhythms of bass guitar
was more airy than the scandalous
pitch notes of guitar turned soprano
like a michael jackson wannabe...
twist of the ***** / twist off the *****
get a screwdriver, scandinavian ha ha:
am i grey bearded enough to act out a norwegian
version of hamlet? no? gooooood...
that's dracula saying mornin' 'n' evenin'
together; i'm into revising tabloids
by making many references...
culturally explicit ***** crap... big **** elephant
***** wide... i'm all ****** up for it to be the
defining concern of our times.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 8:05 PM UTC
you know, you are allowed a Kandinsky or a *******
moment in poetry:
it's like the development of the cut-up technique
beginning with Tristan Tzara and the Dada "school"
of "thought", developed later by William Burroughs
et al., it doesn't have to be fixated to a definite
curvature, a smooth narrative, this is poetry
in a boat, during a storm on the sea, it's not a Cambridge v.
Oxford boat race on the pristine Thames...
some critics ascribe such methodology as either
outright stupid or by psychiatric definition a *word
salad*, but it's simply kaleidoscopic juxtaposition,
it really is a dog drooling ultraviolet saliva onto a
canvas, while someone shakes his head
(preferably a bulldog, or a boxer, or a St. Bernard)...
oh look at him, such ***** eyes, gotta just cuddle him...
i'm not using newspaper snippets, as if writing
a stalker's letter, cutting out letters and gluing them
together on a piece of paper... it's spontaneous
combustion (most of the time)... the only method in it
is that there isn't a method to begin with...
unless randomisation of a gaseous substance with
that hectic squash game of atoms is the adequate
simile... if i were to say that was a metaphorical comparison
i'd be walking through foggy streets of London (circa 1884):
after all words have only a one dimensional interaction
that's the existential recipient of all of them,
the existentially affirmative aye - i left the other
affirmative word thought among the others,
since, sometimes, as in the cases of melancholia, thought
isn't necessarily categorised as affirmative, relegating,
drowning the prime affirmative aye with its awkward
structure (form)... all the words must pass through the ego,
not all of them have to pass through thought,
the ones that bounce against the squash cube wall that's
ego make it onto the page... more do so when compared
with treating thought as the wall and the effective structure
for the rubber ball to bounce against.
me playing squash? oh yes, very much so, loved it,
played about 4 times a week, better than tennis,
which is why no squash tournaments are televised, it's
not really a spectator sport, it's too enjoyable to have
a passive public... it's a sport with the player in mind,
like a horse attached to a carriage with those shutters
over their eyes; so now what? is poetry not allowed to
look like a ******* painting, randomised and incoherent
when compared to the standard practices of narrators?
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
painting pictures in my head
with the brush of memories
that exist because i do
& so do you
discovering & remembering
being in two places at once:
here
&
the part where i'm not anymore
two narrators in my mind:
soak it all in, it's beautiful
&
because you soon you won't be here
browsing through the works of art
stone carved in my mind
will sustain me & soothe the pain
of missing the pieces of my heart
i don't get to touch everyday
& from now until i hold them again
my mantra will be:
these goodbye's are temporary
soon we will meet
on the other side of ourselves
& i can't wait
to get to know you again
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 4:45 PM UTC
One step back, two steps forward,
Swing around and do the dance,
Keep it fast, a little awkward
A whole world audience to entrance.
Now you've got them captivated
Up the tempo, raise the heat,
Some may need to be sedated
As they wither from your beat.
Hearts loud-pounding, foreheads thumping,
Gasping air among the shouts,
Doomsayers bleating, markets jumping,
Second guessing, full of doubts.
Quite the showman, what a show,
Media breathless wanting more,
Fans elated, bask in tow,
Others crowing, keeping score.
Just the start, watch him work,
Revelations by the day,
Not all true, surprises lurk,
Act with haste, keep foes at bay.
As for us enthralled spectators
Barely able to keep track,
Cajoled and pressed by paid narrators,
Every week a heart attack.
If we can but drown the chatter,
Keep a cool head, crack a smile,
Train our thoughts to things that matter,
Take the long view, wait a while.
Let the music work its magic,
His gyrations entertain,
Learn that life need not be tragic,
See the sunshine through the rain.
RAI 5/25
May 3, 2025
May 3, 2025 at 1:12 PM UTC
Trouillot once said,
"We all serve as actors and narrators
That compose the truth of history"
Your 'now' is tomorrow's history,
Your decisions will echo and ripple,
Will you act a courageous scene?
And speak truth,
To cut through pools of lies?
Never let anyone silence you,
And that includes yourself
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 10:44 AM UTC
The cave, a discovered diary.
Rock walls, pages of history.
Etchings and markings
A social commentary,
Buried for an eternity.
Lost in a melee
Of storms and hurricanes
And earthquakes shaking.
Depictions of life,
Of civilization in the making.
Messages chiseled
With muscle and blood,
Signs of existence
Where communities once stood
And thrived on the need
Of food through labours,
The skies, the trees
Their pagan saviours.
Dark rains that poured
Before the construction of Zion,
The shifting of contours,
The shaping of horizons.
Art: the first form
Of true communication.
The observing of omens
Through pictorial narration.
Lessons unlearned,
Warnings unheeded
From a time when the promise
Of future was seeded.
Histories left to benefit man
Before possession was borne
And conflict began.
A legacy left, designed by tribes
From an ancient time
For narrators and scribes.
Their duty to record
An ever-changing world
Through parchment and pigment
And the spoken word,
For future species
Of woman and man
To strategise survival,
To project and to plan.
Knowledge more likely
To be buried, interred,
Then discovered too late
For lessons to be learned
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
The last letter of blatant words condemns one’s thoughts
Yet, truth and lies hurt in our freedom of religion
Unbelievers speak and fight their own slanderous path
Yet, modern romanticism thrives in bitter sweet times
Writers critique riddled lyrics and light of knowledge
Yet, question wordless replies that have doubt to smile
Lame philosophy torments innocence minds like grains of sands
Yet, eternity calls outcry in the sword of defence
Unbendingly cliché, the stern morality of betrayal
Yet, our hearts voice goodwill without idleness
What do you have in the ability to survive in the external world
Yet, the division between persona and new blood Christianity exist
Mixing fact with fiction how fluid is identity with unreliable narrators
Yet, they are purged with pride though still live in darkness of the past
But, no man or woman has written their epitaph
Yet, the anonymous voice has the final say of words
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 2:37 PM UTC
its two in the morning
and i remember the nights when i was 11
and i tried to understand my true nature
and became afraid and confused
because the more i asked why i
felt or thought some thing or way
the less i was sure
that i had no ulterior motives
(this is how i spent my weekends
when i was not comparing
the local colleges-
yes, i was very fun at parties)
i hadn't words for it then
just frustration and shame
but tonight, in the moonlight
i found them
"the world is a story, and we are all nothing more than untrustworthy narrators," i thought
over popcorn and juice
but i was so young, too young
when i started to ponder
what my actions and beliefs
could really mean
i wouldnt say im smarter now
i wouldnt say im more at peace
but really, the best thing ive done done for myself
is forget how to think
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 5:30 AM UTC
Probabilistic thinkers
post hoc narrators, experience
teaches us mistakes,
we learn to walk by falling down.
we never really learn to fly.
Nov 15, 2022
Nov 15, 2022 at 4:25 PM UTC
that's one of the reasons that i don't
"think"
that **** sapiens*
exists...
it seems that from *dementia
praecox's* evolution into schiozophrenia
has allowed a poetic evolution
of spreschen...
you can write subjectivity
and subjectivity,
completely devoid of polar attitudes
as to how the word is accomplished
in a sentence...
but in terms of objectivity?
you always tend to side with the people
who cite "objectivity",
i.e. third party narrators...
these this precursor stress
for a necessity
of ambiguity...
fuck's sake, like inverting a caron
into a circumflex...
^ > < ? the ****
yeah... manga
why wasn't it ever > <
_ ?
ob. human
animal sub.
if there's a subconsciousness,
surely, given the prefix-rule,
there must also be an obconsciousness...
that's ******* with my mind
right now...
but, after all, there's the categorical
foundation...
we already have puritan
objectivity... it's called physics...
dynamic (ɔ) - an "invisible" hand:
ball (p) smacks against ball (b)
and you have the dynamic (c),
i.e. ball (p) stops moving,
and ball (b) moves from
the interaction.
journalism isn't a science,
you can't be objective as such,
you don't have the safety of
a lab. slothing away at
some mundane experiment...
in journalism you only have 1 chance...
you don't get to compare
within the concept
of heidegger's dasein...
you're there, be a ******* journalist!
objectivity to me is a myth of
pompous brats who really want to
reach the apathetic potential of
a psychopath;
that's all they're doing,
imitating psychopathy;
and might i add? very poorly...
the ultimate psychopaths,
i.e. giving the most objective: oops?
the manhattan project...
so yeah...
"objectively" speaking i'm a late cousin
of harambe (the gorilla)...
but subjectively i'm equipped
with the ability to write,
something like this, rather than reduce
myself to a rainbow onomatopoeia of
syllables, imitating a human
coughing or sneezing or laughing,
rather than a gorilla intimidating
a contender for his abode and harem.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 11:03 AM UTC