"obfuscated" poems
**Expectations are the baggage we carry
Getting cumbersome, with each passing day
We always get the unexpected from it
Our back seems to be crumbling under the burden
Weaving a web of expectations, and getting entangled
Unable to ameliorate the obfuscated mind
Reciprocating, with the intention of fulfilling expectations
Our steps become heavily laden, unable to walk
Even though a life beckons without the paraphernalia
We have already walked away from it, with our expectations**
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
All that we know maybe distorted
Or a methodical manipulation
Where truth is obfuscated by few
Which spreads like an epidemic
Words used with vested interest
For us to play a role given to us
Memorizing the scripts, to deliver
Speeches with someone else’s ideas
Thoughts and feelings engineered
To suit the machinations of few
With sinister ideas to play with the mind
A conscious and intelligent manipulation
Bereft of the tools of our own judgment
Our perception is not even ours
For the mind has been violated
With the scheming and methodical manipulations
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
I am at this place where sound is energy-
where color has mass and taste.
Every moment is a glorious adventure,
balanced on the fine line between joy and madness.
I may be insane.
I might have finally lost my mind.
I don't care.
I am bliss and freedom in this moment,
encapsulated by the rushing wind
of my own thoughts as they sail by
visceral, anthropomorphic.
As layer by layer all I know is taken
not by force, but gently,
I discover truth hidden beneath.
Obfuscated no longer,
I am god of this moment-
I am the All-Seeing Eye.
-for just a moment.
A moment that seems to stretch across
the history of the universe,
as I am blinded by the birth of a billion suns...
As waves of cigarette smoke waft
lazily into the form of tigers,
the fever pitch waves adieu-
like the distant memory of an ******
it leaves me tired but fulfilled.
Time to reflect.
Time to absorb what I've found.
There are no adventures greater than those in your own mind.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
start
set the scene...
somewhere enclosed, close and closed
like a bed
(tight, restricted like, uh, the world all around me, how fitting
now it’s political)
on a morning
and maybe the sun will be rising,
or setting−yes−to represent the ethereal dusk of my cognition,
Say I’m with someone−don’t identify whom−it’s meant to be a mystery:
unfinished, left.
it could be you
and I’ll search the dictionary
for words to make my pseudo-philosophical, imagist, absurdist poem obfuscated, esoteric,
tanquam yet favillous; beyond recognition
So that it sounds like Dr. Seuss,
that is, a Dr. Seuss that knows Althusser, Derrida and the early writings of Flaubert.
add some random enjamb-
ment. cut out the capitalizationandspacing. start a sentence;
end it. Section break
Oh, I’ll need more words, you know, to remind my peers of my intellectuality,
-out of place words that don’t actually mean anything:
Specificity or
literati
that’s good. Now, to end-
bring it to a close in one all-encompassing word:
(to be read over-dramatically)
pretension.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Being alone is not loneliness
Time we spend with ourselves
Listening to our inner voices
The symphony of the universe
So many things unheard before
A revelation to the Soul that yearns
To taste the purity of this origin
Sediments of chaos settle down
Giving you clarity and pure thoughts
Mind, heart, and soul in concord
Clearer perspective of the truth
Otherwise obfuscated by distractions
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
As the sun sets upon the horizon,
Without poetic justice,
I do not prevail.
My mind troubled,
Obfuscated by the irony,
Of everyday situations.
Purity,
Tarnished.
Joy,
Vexed.
As the sun sets.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
Are you human?
A CAPTCHA
To sort human form software
Just read warped letters
Recognize overlapping characters
Decipher obfuscated text
And that's it!
Is that it?
Does it prove I'm a human?
Despite...
Being unattended at home
Being neglected amongst peers
And suffering all the cat calling and street harassment
May be?
May be not?
As for me...
Am I a human?
Well, I remember being one
But
I am not sure
anymore...
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 1:25 AM UTC
Tonight's grey cloud hangs over the pearlescent blue and pink of today.
The gray is an avalanche
criss-crossed
with black
powerlines
that spread like cracks in a mirror.
The rain starts to fall.
To my right is a young blonde
age (17?) unknown.
Her bag and telephone
would
match
but for a shade.
The rain starts to fall.
Young lovers kiss in the calm embrace of one another
beneath an awning the colour of
old ladies - no
boredom - no
subjugation -no.
the under side of an old mattress.
The rain starts to fall.
Across the gap stands an Asian man with the complete accoutrements of a golfer.
Obfuscated now by a train
with the palette of a McDonald's ad.
The rain starts to fall.
The streets are become slick
and every lamp bleeds the start
of an oil painting
with brushes made of light.
The air is cool.
There is a canal that stretches between seats, walled by rows of heads.
In the distance a little girl peaks her head up in the middle of all this,
she wears a bright pink plastic bow on her head that blinks and glows.
Traffic lights streak
green and red
over black gesso.
Cars streak
silver and blood
down black gesso.
"I simply don't need to cheapen things further"
Matching work uniforms.
Matching looks of boredom
Matching shoes and glances
Matching telephones
Matching lack of conversation
Matching hair
Matching matching carpet and drapes
Matching posture
why is everything matching?
(they got off at the same station)
Suburban princess holds the phone like a bible.
I attempt to sketch her arm in my head....but I am too ******
I am hungry.
The outside air is cool.
This is a carriage for the antisocial
3 rooms of solitude.
Everyone is plugged in
No-one dares to speak.
The Art of Conversation.
An old woman sits in front of me, with the face of Ray Winstone in drag.
Her hair is a dandelion
and her eyebrows are birds
painted in the distance.
Hands wrinkled and knotty
like old fruit.
Trains are predictable
the purest form of modern transport
all the little fishies
in the giant metal can
are silent to one another.
The train conductors voice is boredom.
I mistake ambient noise for music.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
A is for Almost, how much I tried
B is for Barely, how I survived
C is for Clearly I'm feeling worn thin
D is I'm Dying inside of this skin
E is for Every, the days that feel worst
F is for Fear, the unbearable curse
G is for Guttural, forth from which sorrow boasts
H is for Happy, what I long for the most
I is for how I am screaming Inside
J for how I long to feel Justified
K is for Knowing that none of it's real
L is the Love that I no longer feel
M is Misanthropic, Macabre, Morose
N is I'm Not okay, Not even close
O for the thoughts that become Obfuscated
P is for all of the People I've hated
Q is for the always unanswered Question
R, from the ones I hold dearest, Rejection
S is the Solitary Silence I Seek
T is Trying to fight when I'm weak
U, feeling Ugly, outside and in
V is the whole bottle of Vicodin
W is Working through Panic attacks
X is the whole bottle of Xanax
Y is for You, the only light that I see
Z is the Zeal for life you've brought back to me
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
The gracile figurine
bubblewraped in warmth:: protected
She is smoke in a midnight room
Defying
any fingerprints::: vulnerability, for her, a vile, repressive word
oh that visage
oh obfuscated view... sacrosanct shadow in the dark
Her
Lenticular frames
Sit wide-eyed, unwatered and
::unmoved::
cold victory of another day.
another inward, in-word retreat.
for her braille heart untouched
still she fears punctuation
Endings.
I guess for her it’s the thought of losing
hope
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
Black ink sprawled across a page,
Delirious writings; unfortunate musings
-- truth obfuscated, a pink haze
a tinted hue hiding the monsters lying beneath
An oil spill of paradoxes;
what once was true is no longer,
Confused, hurt, worried
Which version is the truth
-- do you believe what you see,
or what you want to?
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
I've got the world's best kept secret
locked in 2 AM screenshots--
her late night musings over a crusty joint, a crushed pill,
or some ***** cigarettes.
She sends me her thoughts,
fears,
anxieties,
insecurities--
at her most vulnerable,
absolutely the most beautiful.
Her anguish stressed in the digital scroll
(though she doesn't like Kerouac, I let her borrow my copy),
her stained fingers mashing all their hurt and nicotine
into the keyboard--
and her pen aches and her paper stains
with the unrequited love she empathizes with
in the somber pop punk songs that explode from the stereo
she sings loudly on cold and lonely night drives
(I shiver in her passenger seat).
And she made for me the greatest of mixtapes,
her holy scrawl expounding upon a dull grey donut-shaped
slowly fading form of intimacy,
a blank CD--
"This mix is a good time"
and when I jammed it into my car stereo I was illuminated.
She is so cool, she is so punk,
and in her clandestine drugstore car charger thefts,
broken poems,
impalpable aesthetic,
impeccable music taste,
illuminated or even further obfuscated drug trips--
I have the world's best kept secret,
and more than anything, I wish to share it with you--
so she can make someone another mixtape.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
the horse rummages on the track
and the victory is owned by the ****
soon sleep will engulf my body
like the oblivious quietude of Aokigahara-jukai.
things and their semblance of utmost care.
light begins to burst
and there is little left to see,
wide-eyed, crunched by the efficacy of aches.
taking all to the very heart of hurt
as gamblers wager,
and coming back with the sound of completeness:
a man is a man in his chronology of defeat -
left torn by madness,
a cornered beast pressed against the woods.
the moon plays its lyre, white-washed,
sound wading in the very source of quiet,
hauled out of the Sun, its mother.
this hound stalks the world
with woebegone legs, a reflection of the entire world fractured
by a singular shot at the end.
i hear the guttural snarl of engine
unwavering in its limitations. say, at first light, all exists to paint darkness quicker
than any obfuscated conclusion -- hiding in
itself, its mood for squalors.
the mud dug deep for bones
pared from the slaughter of midnight,
hiding them to mask my defeat:
everything around me sparkles with
the vigor of frailty, all the same.
the nights are too long, scarce as froth
from an opened mouth left flat,
a dry gin bottle.
i imagine sad armies dissolving in pale moonlight, and crosses thumbed down to the snaking hiss of its nondescript prayer.
gears gnash like teeth in anger
of you in your young clothes, the pace of cars
hurrying back to homes.
i remember the splintered wood burning
the last in the round kiln of the Red Lion.
the upholstery of night is the twilight's
catharsis. the coast of dread widens like
the vernal metamorphosis of a young ********** in Gibraltar,
come in, come in with undecided ******
you can hear the fall coalesce with the levitation of ember, landing like feet blunt
on the asphalt beside desolate bicycles
in seedy parks.
the surreal tabulation of analogue repetitions:
death's myriad, in all corners screaming
the countenance rebel, against the floored masses.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
And the ships were fogbound for three days
Their hulls split smiling wide by the spray of the channel
We're hovering with them in the dimness of a drunk sun crawling under
A dusk devoid of color
Welcome rainclouds follow countless bouts of bleakness
Slate-gray miasma of refinery exhaust swirls
Mingling skyward with the overcast scene and all it's gulls and cranes
Cawing in the dampness toward their roosts under jetties
Those frayed hurricane tarps on dilapidated rooftops
Laid creased and faded by morose Texas suns
Epitaphs blotting dismal landscapes of copper and olive
And smashed concrete begging to be reclaimed by nature
As all of it is when the seasons heave
Our interim footnotes disguised by the power of purpose
The notion that one day our role will be to make life better for each other
(Oh, how we loathe being found out)
Instead of grimacing, sage-like, naked and angelic in our blindness by the mirror
While each shred of truth oscillates into blue ruin and we shake, shake, shake
Mesmerized by houses where we once lived and stories we must have led in them
In varied and skewed alternate realities, and in dreams we once had
Some of which paint homage to our own grim summers here
Some in which where my roads leading home were less obfuscated
Instead being laid out like the chemtrail creases drawn solemn on our brows
(We won't notice them until our thirties)
This far south, everything is the ageless vacuum we've known since conception
Thusly we're bound to the irony of it all by dull tradition and the will to break it
Among all other shams bred real by the ambitions of confused white men
Their warring remains reigning evident within my crooked heart
Under whichever corner of earthen floor it may be buried
Your guess is as good as anyone's
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
World we live in
Architects are we
Choices are
The building blocks
And truth, the base
Most of the times
We falter
With our choices
We construct
With vision obfuscated
Soon we see
Piles of rubble
Where many tales
Are lost, forever
Relegated to obscurity
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
one day i have it all figured out & then the next everything is so obfuscated.
i have my mind set on those goals far beyond me, then i lose it as if i weren't just concentrated .. on things so important, on raison d'etre.
one day i'm at peace & then the next im in pieces.
i have my heart set on a man that probably wants someone far beyond me, and although he's losing & he's not concentrating on the fact that im rare.. fond of kalon, he is fond of me.
he doesn't know that what he is searching for is only right before him, foolish yet gapseed.
one day im alive & then the next i am barely breathing..
i have my feet set on a path too far, too complex, too difficile,
and although it may bring to me wary & bereavement, i will gait to the end.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 3:26 PM UTC
I use big words
You use big words too
Big words help me communicate
Complex things to you
But as I am reading
The things that you write
I see communication as far from your sight
Instead it would seem
At the core of your plight
Is a need to be valued
And that isn't right
For the value in words
Exists in their content
Content obfuscated by all of this nonsense
I'd just hope it's clear
At the heart of my fear
Is thought I'll be scorned for verbosity
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
What a sublime impermanence is to be found
In this cavalcade of inanity we know as love.
What once heralded joy, pledged promise divine
Now spawns a spurn that admonishes mine.
What delicious torture a man must bear
If he is of the lover's ilk - Cupid's doll.
What must one do to abolish the scars
Left by the ravages that heartbreak can mar?
What tumult must be borne within the mortal soul
In order to appease the convolutions of the human psyche.
What a breath a malaise for a logic gone dead,
The emotional hierophant left in its stead.
What is the purpose to the words I am writing,
The ramblings so obfuscated on which my time is wasted?
What a beacon they serve to those jaded and lost -
To those that have loved and tasted the cost.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
***Clouds give us respite from the harsh sun
Glaring rays obfuscated by the black screen
Rains quelling the rising heat of the Earth
Soil is replenished to sow a new harvest***
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 2:26 AM UTC
Mirror reveals the inner sanctuary
The world neglected and obfuscated
Standing there, desolate, a lone warrior
Facing the unheard revelations of life
Now we see life with clarity
When the mirror lends it eyes to us
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Life’s fault lines
Tectonic shifts
Massive upheavals
Widening chasms
Molten anger
Love’s decimated
Fumes of fury
Obfuscated view
Along fault lines
Feet scathed
Blistered soul
Hope shattered
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
we all narrate
our own destinies
smoothing the edges of
dubious memory
so we become hero
or victim, as we see fit
we paint our words with
colour and passion
and make some areas
grey or black
shading the story,
so that our heart remains clean
it is only in the small print
foot notes, that we write
codiciles and retractions
that we give a nod to time
the nebulous truth
obfuscated by time
and the blurred re-telling
becomes the urban legends
of our minds....
our very own fairy tales
and once upon a times
seen through the
kaliedescope of fathertime
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 7:18 AM UTC