"neophyte" poems
A - the atrocity that my life has become
D - the damage, and still, im not done
D - the denial, the doom in the vile, dangerous, daunting; forever defile
I - the image I fake of myself, I- my constant &chronic; bad health.
C- the cost of a chemical wealth.
T for the tension, paranoia and fear. Yet it’s the letter that symbols it’s here.
I - irrational, insensible, intense. I - irresistible iridescence .
O- for the option that I didn’t take, O for the others that still I forsake.
And N for nervous. Nauseous. Night. N, the neophyte, turned narcissist knight.
Transparent to everyone, how its hold is too true
So clear its invisible, Addiction did coo:
“when you wake and feel my crave,
and all my charms different behave;
resistance, strength, pain & choice,
may mute my spell, quiet my voice.”
“embrace what little light is shed” suggested addiction, faintly he said:
“For I can **** the best man dead,
with only shadows in their head.”
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
That lamp thou fill’st in Eros name to-night,
O Hero, shall the Sestian augurs take
To-morrow, and for drowned Leander’s sake
To Anteros its fireless lip shall plight.
Aye, waft the unspoken vow: yet dawn’s first light
On ebbing storm and life twice ebb’d must break;
While ’neath no sunrise, by the Avernian Lake,
Lo where Love walks, Death’s pallid neophyte.
That lamp within Anteros’ shadowy shrine
Shall stand unlit (for so the gods decree)
Till some one man the happy issue see
Of a life’s love, and bid its flame to shine:
Which still may rest unfir’d; for, theirs or thine,
O brother, what brought love to them or thee?
3.2k
My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC
Then was my neophyte,
Child in white blood bent on its knees
Under the bell of rocks,
Ducked in the twelve, disciple seas
The winder of the water-clocks
Calls a green day and night.
My sea hermaphrodite,
Snail of man in His ship of fires
That burn the bitten decks,
Knew all His horrible desires
The climber of the water ***
Calls the green rock of light.
Who in these labyrinths,
This tidethread and the lane of scales,
Twine in a moon-blown shell,
Escapes to the flat cities' sails
Furled on the fishes' house and hell,
Nor falls to His green myths?
Stretch the salt photographs,
The landscape grief, love in His oils
Mirror from man to whale
That the green child see like a grail
Through veil and fin and fire and coil
Time on the canvas paths.
He films my vanity.
Shot in the wind, by tilted arcs,
Over the water come
Children from homes and children's parks
Who speak on a finger and thumb,
And the masked, headless boy.
His reels and mystery
The winder of the clockwise scene
Wound like a ball of lakes
Then threw on that tide-hoisted screen
Love's image till my heartbone breaks
By a dramatic sea.
Who kills my history?
The year-hedged row is lame with flint,
Blunt scythe and water blade.
'Who could snap off the shapeless print
From your to-morrow-treading shade
With oracle for eye?'
Time kills me terribly.
'Time shall not ****** you,' He said,
'Nor the green nought be hurt;
Who could hack out your unsucked heart,
O green and unborn and undead?'
I saw time ****** me.
2.5k
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.
We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.
The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel
The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Exotic trollwood harlotry and mule kit blues
Tyrannical tyrannosaur traction padness
Cohort cavorts clastic and witch’s *** hues
Ontological ontogeny somatalogy fadness
Inductive endemic veracities and talus weather clues
Epistemological equilibrium’s homogeny badness
Timeless rhetorical ruminations and ephemeral exigency dues
Transcendent ascensional equivocal madness
Tactile acuity prescience capacity intrepid intrigues
Mystical symbiosis dharma sensorium sentiment proselyte
Torturous tractive prosthesis umbrage ultraism colleagues
Newfangled nocturnal nonchalant nether nestle neophyte
Top notch topography tortoise trauma fatigues
Faustian faux pas foist felicitous fealties socialite
Agnate nous ontological ontogeny euphenics in league
Mentalities evocative introjecting sycophant eulogizing apposite
Mystical terrestrial equestrian tellurian tableau
Panoramic imagery empiricist
Evocative exserted apomixies’ ethereal should show
Ontological somatalogy lyricist
Reflective refraction remissions opulence could know
Theosophy theophany epiphany equilibrist
Magniloquent inductive extrapolation quantum back ***
Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
Catatonic fusion with bathroom tile
vapor patina about my lattice
neophyte - les enfants - lain there
my fingers dipped beneath ribs
diaphragm compressed - ***** tatting saliva
I firmly grasp the seam-ripper and unspool
aortic tissue
extracting one thread at a time
tying the fist in a knot
releasing kinetic ****** each time
I attempt
enigmatic repair
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC
It started with a hug
years of desire and affection
summed up in one simple
heart warming gesture.
Foreign sensations
a little fumbling to find my Mark
we fit right in.
Perfect opposites
the Lark and the Owl
Cold and Warm
the Neophyte and the Teacher
Forgotten fears
and new found peace.
We must meet again.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 4:00 PM UTC
she was a neophyte to her own life,
syncopated heart beats to a still night.
occluded love behind steel bars.
ubraided her brain With mind scars.
staying reticent to the people her own home,
her transitory smile was well known.
for her smile was a beautiful sight.
it was left with the vestige of a loveless light.
only repudiation to what people preached,
feeling that her soul was a disparate beast.
her idiosyncrasies were inhuman in nature.
said to be intractable in her own behaviour.
never did she speak to humankind.
but inside her head was a loquacious mind.
only wanting a stasis within her sadness.
only to be taken by insanity and madness.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC
upstairs and downstairs, like a frazzled owl character in my third-grade reader
in the doorway of my 200-level on sub-Sahara where we talk only of Nigeria
holding the elevator for my superior in the lobby of a too-tall edifice to man
a college student.
an ABD.
intern.
backstage at your high school graduation ceremony, your mortarboard won't stay on your head
in a food court where your mother doesn't get it when you say you can't wear pants anymore, or get your bimonthly haircut
when you're skirting the poverty line after your family business was sued but your FAFSA says parent #1 earns six figures
initiate.
neophyte.
not-quite-other.
the female body as a threshold between worlds, channel betwixt boundaries
Schrodinger's cat simultaneously in separation and marginal phases according to van Gennep
divorce papers signed but not sent, enclosed in manila at the bottom of a cherrywood desk
continuum.
spectrum.
a line without points.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
Peter (my bf) and I are at Heraclee beach for the weekend.
It’s a little sliver of heaven, about 11 miles south of Saint Tropez.
It’s too early in the season to swim - being breezy and 72°f -
but it’s still the beach. I’m a neophyte beach ***
but I’m willing and eager to learn.
I’m valuable even if I’m not being productive [I self-affirm].
something poetic-ish..
*The sun’s a drowsy tyrant, not yet willing to unforgivingly scorch.
The beach is like glistening sugar, the sand still cool enough to walk, rogue west winds occasionally whip it to an ankle stinging sandpaper.
Majestic umbrella pines are dancing the hula. The shrub-like understory is dominated by drought-tolerant lavenders and rosemary that dense the air with perfume which complements the mediterranean brine.
There’s laughter, off somewhere, like wind-chimes playing clear, just above the ever-roiling sound of the surf. Birds are everywhere, gulls walk around like they’re bored, cory float on air, like kites and petrels skim against the wind, centimeters above choppy waves.
The beach isn’t crowded - French kids are still in school - but a few hardy, oiled, bronzed and sculpted bodies are sprawled on the pristine sand, like offerings to the god of leisure.*
Our hotel has its own private cove, with adirondack wooden lounges under yellow parasols. Pastel blue-vested wait-staffers circle, on the quarter-hour, eager to please.
“Deux (two) American Martinis, S'il te plaît! (please),” I ask, expectantly.
It’s a **** beach, but Peter got an alarmed look when I joked I might go ******* “Annick (my older sister) always goes ******* I informed him.
“I’d like to see that,” he’d chuckled, and when I gave him a raised eyebrow, he amended, “That came out wrong.”
.
.
songs for this..
Summer of Our Love by Triangle Sun
That life by Unknown Mortal Orchestra
The kiss of Venus by Dominic Fike, Paul McCartney
May 27, 2024
May 27, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC
And then she was a chasm,
A cavity of weakness;
Void of throat shredding screams,
Drowning in mind mincing whispers.
She is now hollow of all
But a single reverberating beat
Clawing at the Heaven she yearns for.
But she is now a chasm,
A cavity of sorrow;
She found the space behind her ears
Home to hundred-legged creatures;
Her mouth's roof now scarred
From the family of nesting bats;
The glow worms that once illuminated her dark eyes
Sleep.
That is all she will ever be:
A Chasm.
Her bones broke when she joined the mountain side.
Muscles turned to moss, skin to crumbling stone.
Her lashes are now the stalagmites and stalactites
And although she did not open her eyes to this,
She is no neophyte to the mountain's arms.
She simply allows herself to forget for a time.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC
Backtracking towards the Light
oh! Fakir,
brilliant shiny Bright
Neophyte hypnosis, take me In..
oh! Beloved,
fragile tendrils of my desire
heartfully hear me, hear Me..
my heartfelt Prayers,
I do not fear to tread into the highest vapours.
Clandestine Clementine!
not One Breath but Three
times itself, squared.
Blaspheme!
not forsaken, dripping drapes
blindsided, blindly onwards...
not forsaken Sight!
Hear me, Hear Me..
Bless'ed be my Name!
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
Fates transmuted
Beguiled by the labium
of disaster; as it emanates
fallacies of mirth;
a vagary unattainable
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 6:30 AM UTC
Across the way seems taught,
It stretches the wits
Lifeless forms, unyielding but fraught
Flowing from the depths
Neophyte the new thought take
mirrored opacity
Dumb mouths, cease to communicate
All out in the middle ground
Lidless pupils temperature moves
derived discourse
Winners only fail to lose
Eventual slouch is universal
Ones and Twos, entrenched in hate
forgotten loss
Trembling nails, cease to quake
Swiftly sweeping like hair in wind.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
Warm up
Listening to intuition
Hands full
Cast as a wallpaper
Time traveler
Witnessed the disgrace
Can’t explain more
Stereotype, eccentric?
Towards a familiar face
Being a neophyte
With a marijuana life
Switching gears into auto pilot
Floated with no gravity
Clarity, that makes no sense
Unseen, unheard but close to heart
A selection bias
Let the Adrenaline rush
Dream or nightmare?
Claws sharper than Scalpel
Waiting for a response
“Yes” is the answer
Proof of life
Night with an open eyes.
God’s mistake
All come with an expiration date.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 7:02 PM UTC
it’s really hard to up heave the way i feel at times
people try to cheer the environment with unsophisticated actions
you’d have to probe me to actually feel what “feelings” really are
see life is a ******* big gamble
you either risk it all to live a great life or a ****** life
then you have teen love, with the same view points and bam another what the ****
another story to tell your friends
most girls i know have neophyte like if they don’t know what to do
then they say **** when emotions kick in that’s incoherent
when love hits it’s hard to stay away, i’d rather ponder
when a door shuts be an opportunist to win things over and find the key
that’s like giving up and trying something new and ******* at it
i’ll stick to learning every instrument in an orchestra so i can make my own concerto
and i will, I’ve been waiting for 5 years to start the composing
and i am a genius, notes are colors, music is art
if Picasso would’ve been a musical genius the music would turn into colors, the sistine chapel would be a nice orchestral piece
so many what if’s in the world
like if 20 years past, and they made another bible, would i be in it?
cause i’m destined to be somebody, it’s a promise
people take insults in a very ***** way
you choose what to be offended by in other words
a girl gets called a ***** and cries
so somebody can call me a musical genius and cry
it’s really the way you take it up the ***
in some occasions words really are stronger than actions
can love get old?
does true love really wait?
understanding is vital to me, but taking time out of your day to read and examine my writing is even better to me
cause then people appreciate your intelligence and admire you in a way they can’t see
and all the moments that are bad all conclude and remind me of a small **** you
publish thoughts draw music make art creativity is everywhere find it
it is now 2014, I wrote this 17 months ago and I'm suicidal
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
How strange
that such a nonsense
piece of trivia
inserted tongue-in-cheek,
should bring forth
such a dynamite
response
to my own neophyte
essays in versifying.
Can it be perhaps that others
who might be thought
to understand much better
see it as mere aggression
instead of, as intended,
intercession.
But, metaphorically,
before you close my book,
turn to the final page
and have a look.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
.
O the trender souls who keep
Spewing their ladled ornaments,
Words even a dull, starving bird
Would not gobble, plastic pieces,
Rambles of thought, unthought,
Pretty sounding, shiny trinkets,
Merely nailed by some old book,
Or a dog eared dictionary, maybe,
Some pulpy article wherein hacks,
Dreamt with loss, sad aspirations,
These are the dug trailings of fools,
Lazy, writers who fancy themselves,
Fancying themselves, in a black mirror,
Merciful as imagination and delusion,
O how the neophyte sings without any
Voice, nor depth, nor taste, nor blood,
Conscious revels in unconsciousness,
O but lame awaits the vain, the shallow,
The self proclaimed, the peacock, but, their
Showtime is only something base, something
Not and ghost peculiar, something only a carny
Would know to mock, revile as he promotes.
How glittering are the newest word baubles,
Blathering speak to mask all faceless souls,
Twaddle, twitterings, revered by simpletons.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Exotic trollwood harlotry and mule kit blues
Tyrannical tyrannosaur traction padness
Cohort cavorts clastic and witch’s *** hues
Ontological ontogeny somatalogy fadness
Inductive endemic veracities and talus weather clues
Epistemological equilibrium’s homogeny badness
Timeless rhetorical ruminations and ephemeral exigency dues
Transcendent ascensional equivocal madness
Tactile acuity prescience capacity intrepid intrigues
Mystical symbiosis dharma sensorium sentiment proselyte
Torturous tractive prosthesis umbrage ultraism colleagues
Newfangled nocturnal nonchalant nether nestle neophyte
Top notch topography tortoise trauma fatigues
Faustian faux pas foist felicitous fealties socialite
Agnate nous ontological ontogeny euphenics in league
Mentalities evocative introjecting sycophant eulogizing apposite
Mystical terrestrial equestrian tellurian tableau
Panoramic imagery empiricist
Evocative exserted apomixies’ ethereal should show
Ontological somatology lyricist
Reflective refraction remissions opulence could know
Theosophy theophany epiphany equilibrist
Magniloquent inductive extrapolation quantum back ***
Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 1:05 AM UTC
I clip my finger-
nails
listen to
pointless music
and try
to write a decent
poem
when will I
be able to call
myself a
“poet”
I refuse to
do it now
for fear of being
shot down
by the vultures
that constantly
circle over-
head
and in truth,
I don’t believe
it
I’m not like Hemmingway,
or Whitman, or Dickinson,
or Buk
I’m not wise,
I haven’t seen
the world,
I don’t know
anything about
anything
and most of all
I’m a kid
they’re all grown,
old or dead by the
time they garnered
any fame
and I’m sixteen,
a neophyte in a
generation of
lazy degeneration
but I am not part of
my generation, I am
privy to its problems
but stoic to its culture
I stand aside while
standing atop
I clip the final
finger, the pinky
of my left hand,
and the music
churns to a halt
I count all the poems
I’ve written
over five-hundred,
I chuckle
suppose I’m a poet
even if I’m a tad
untraditional
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 11:57 AM UTC
baby eyes
all the time
every landscape
any face
mirror skies
baby eyes
everything
is new
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
To achieve
conscious loving union
with God -
or to weep joyously
on my knees
before an execution?
*"Take up your cross
and follow me"*
A reference to the hellish
torture of crucifixion -
or, as perhaps was intended,
an allusion to
the austerity of the path?
You misled me, Preacher.
I needed the method,
not the blood.
- fr
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 6:20 AM UTC
There was life before you.
There was
air
in my lungs.
...There was even love.
Can you even fathom it?
I knew love before you?
I knew the warmth of
firm
hands
and
the racing of a
happy
heart.
I was no neophyte romantic-
You just reshaped me-
restructured a
fraction
of my world.
You became my weakest foundation,
and when I fell...
so did your fidelity.
My,
we fell so hard.
But while you fall into empty arms,
I fall into hopeful futures.
I'm learning to
live again.
And someday...
I'll even re-learn to love.
There is life after you.
There is
air
in my lungs.
Why, there will even be love.
Jul 19, 2010
Jul 19, 2010 at 5:10 PM UTC
My heart to the sunken of the sea
Iron forged by fear of our enemy
The gates remain closed
Selective choices of knowledge
The neophyte thrives
By own choice
To keep the eye blind
The age of enlightenment
For which they fought and died
Now perish in drought
To deny your shame
Before there was someone to blame
Those hidden in shadows fighting change
Now there is only conformity and denial of pain
It's easier to hide from the sorrow and enjoy the miniscule futile fleet from reality
Tomorrow it will have grown
But not by much
Not enough to affect the ones you love and trust
So what does it matter if we deal with it or not
Not bound by morals or a guilty conscience
When awareness has been forcefully stopped
Deprivation is the key
I hope you sleep tight
And dream sweet dreams
Death in the gutter
Children soldiers mutter
Another life taken
Blood drops painting
Souls of the lost
Suicide watch
The cutters edge
As needles breathe
Life to death
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC