"obfuscation" poems
Hypocracy Mandatory.
Gullibility Mandatory.
Insensitivity Mandatory.
Obesity Mandatory.
Immaturity Mandatory.
Childishness Mandatory.
Monarchy Mandatory.
Capitalism Mandatory.
Conservatism Mandatory.
Terrorism Mandatory.
Corruption Mandatory.
Incompetence Mandatory.
Socialism Mandatory.
Dictatorship Mandatory.
Militarism Mandatory.
Liberalism Mandatory.
Bhuddism Mandatory.
Islam Mandatory.
Christianity Mandatory.
Judaism Mandatory.
Hinduism Mandatory.
Vedism Mandatory.
Hatred Mandatory.
Anarchy Mandatory.
Jealousy Mandatory.
Nationalism Mandatory.
Fascism Mandatory.
Racism Mandatory.
Lies Mandatory.
Hypocracy Mandatory.
Obesity Mandatory.
Heart Disease Mandatory.
Cancer Mandatory.
Idiocy Mandatory.
Eco-Nazism Mandatory.
All of us Humans.
Of all Five Colours.
Wherever we be.
Whatever we do.
However we "see" ourselves.
What do we call ourselves now?.
How about shallow nitpickers?.
Or celebrity obsessed morons?.
Or religious hypocrits?.
Or Democrats?.
Or Socialists?.
Or Revolutionaries.
Or just plain "nice folks"?.
Or supporters of oligarchy policies?.
Or immature backpackers?.
Or government assassins of integrity?.
Or juicy ***********
Or swift tongued ******** ticklers?.
no matter how many lie dead or injured as a result
of our obfuscation and avoidance.
As if poets have the explanation to life
except in strings of meaningless associated
but fine sounding words.
When "poets" are the voluntary slaves of Mind
and Conditioned Identity..
As if poets had the ***** to go beyond all these things.
As if .
Scrape the Moons suface and you will find a delicate Castello Blue Cream Cheese.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Oppression, a monarch with a crown,
Limits resources in every town.
No reason to hasten, no reason to strive,
Content with meager offerings, barely alive.
With corruption and barriers abound,
Progress is hindered, hope is drowned.
The bright minds, afraid to take flight,
Chained to the system, a slave to the night.
No greater malice than silence so deep,
Stifling progress, and secrets keep.
Perfection in negligence, light in the shade,
Obfuscation the art, truth to evade.
The God that troubles, the tyrants that bind,
Crushing brilliance, dulling the mind.
In quiet desperation, with hopeful elation,
This poem, a message, a call to liberation.
May it strike deep, may it shake the ground,
May it expose the corruption that's found.
May it pierce through the veil, and bring forth the light,
May it break the chains, and set things right.
The oppression, corruption, and silence enthralled,
May they all fall to the might of my words so bold.
May it be a catalyst, a spark that ignites,
A revolution, a change in sight.
I hope my poem strikes a mighty blow,
A wakeup call, for all to know.
The power in words, the power to call,
I hope my poem, I hope my poem kills them all.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
We revere our ancestors
Becoming their protectors
Because they're remembered
With a golden scepter
Yet they're only infectors
Through outdated lectures
If you examine history
It doesn't take too long
To unravel the mystery
Our ancestors were wrong
They sing a siren's song
Of tradition
As redundant repetition
They sing a tribal hymn
Of societal sin
That fools fall in
Until we're walled in
If you want to meet our ancestors
Go to North Sentinel Island
They'll turn you into a rejector
Or **** you where you stand
The last island of savages
It's barely inhabited
Due to its low population
And the fact that its inhabitants are barely people
There's further obfuscation
When they can't differentiate between good and evil
Two fishermen drifted toward the village
Not to ****** and pillage
They had haphazardly fallen asleep
And temporarily lost control
They couldn't hear their worried fleet
Or the natives on patrol
They were turned into the dearly departed
Because these savages are basically ********
No justice was found for those men
They were killed by a protected people
Why are we protecting them then
If mere contact will always be lethal?
We love our ancestors so much we let them ****** us
Yet these are the same people that have inserted us
Into this cycle of violence
And now they're dead
The only relief is their silence
Their ideas we must shed
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
Darkness falls like snowflakes
It drifts down soft around you
Cold and mysterious
Sleepless and delirious
In a shroud of wordless peace
And sweet release
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
The hole spews out disease and rot
devoid of fleshy substance
Engrossed by such a gruesome plot
I gulp the zombie's pretense
What makes the morbid fascination
justifying obfuscation?
Now, I see there is no sense
in coining truth that's hardly grown
One thing I've come to understand:
exploit their fear of the unknown
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 12:03 PM UTC
****** Bag in sunglasses
donned indoors where
fluorescent sunlight cannot justify
the obfuscation of haughty eyes
so the visage is one
of pure pretension
and cockiness,
dichotomized
as self-assuredness
and the colloquial term for the phallus,
a literal ****
(I see him strongly in the memory of a high school field trip returning home school bus late night he sits sideways back to the window head leaning back sunglasses donned smug grin I rendered him the vessel and the scape goat bearing my burning hatred for the inflated ego wrapped in an undesirable chic I deem deplorable, hate hate hate)
Smug grin,
I wrote this poem from a bean bag
in the corner of the library third floor
whilst wearing sunglasses and
a taste of irony
on callous lips
twisted in an invisible sneer.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
Thoughts
splash echoing
like pebbles into a well.
Confusion.
Woven like a web all over.
Returning at the same spot,
beaten, broken into
a hundred parts.
Echoing.
Returning.
Plumes of obfuscation.
Rising, spreading everywhere.
Frustration.
This spiraling music in the head.
What is the way forward?
The rickshaw slices the expanse
speeding away from my grasp.
A query rises into the wilderness
of a hundred distractions.
The bell. The bell. Distant, sonant.
Door. Phone. Beep. Beep.
The firmament is camouflaged.
Am looking for a direction;
Confusion. Obfuscation. Frustration.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
You say I don’t need a poem
to capture the day in a frame and tuck it
beneath my pillow
But I’d like to have it there in case I forget
the way the armadillo on the side of the road
lay belly up, beer bottle in paw
a redneck's respects for the deceased
or the feeling of three in the morning
pounding in my skull, soaking in memories
trivia pursued and articles of obfuscation: the elucidation of the world
seen through bottle-green binoculars and heard
through the neighbor's windchimes ringing out diminished sevenths
and questions I don't want to answer
or even ask out loud
I want to tuck it in my wallet
for times that I can't remember your faces
or the scent of your shampoo, or the order of keychains
on your keyring, or the times we drove to East Jesus Nowhere
and you ripped the leaves from my calendar, ticking
and turning my seasons by the mile markers in the cement
I do this to engrave it in my cerebrum
the nights we ran outside in our pajamas in the rain
and danced for a while, then danced some more,
turning and leaping and spinning and reaching
and falling down to weep for no reason
mourning the morning
among the sharpened blades of grass
You laughed at me once
remember that? how you scoffed and snatched
my paper from my spiral and stuffed it in the trash can
telling me not to write fiction in history class
but it's just as much history as every other Jefferson
another amendment you'll never read
But I forgive you. you're not the first
to tell me to get my feet out of the clouds
because my head's already gone too far for saving
or to attempt to stifle my addiction to
the scratch of pen on paper
the scent of ink on tree
the pulse of blood in my brain
I cling to syntax like religion
keeping the words pinched in my fists like pixie dust
hoping if I say the right abracadabra
the pen will turn to a wand
and I can paint you the details
one day at a time
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
Noah, have you built your floating ark yet?
A tsunami's on its way to clean up earth.
Banks, seduction tumble and the media gets wet.
Noah, have you built your floating ark yet?
Obfuscation, hedonism ready set
For obsolescence. Visions replace dearth.
Noah, have you built your floating ark yet?
A tsunami's on its way to clean up earth.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Carla said we must talk about love.
If it doesn’t define, it doesn’t exist, she said,
And pulled the two nearest stools away from the bar.
Has anyone you have ever known- anyone-
Ever offered you even a pitiful explanation
Of this bewildering word
She asked me,
In that way she has
Of not asking me at all.
She lit her pipe,
Her first exhale a ceremonial cloud,
A white tobacco fog,
A linger that purchased my childhood memories,
The pungency of three fingers of scotch, neat, at dawn,
The south face picture window ablaze with
The painful flood of an early sun,
A tin can stereo in full lament about cowboy love
And the inevitability of betrayal,
My father off key,
All his memories a libel and a calumny.
If I say I lust for you, you know what I mean, Carla said,
If I question your loyalty there is no obfuscation,
If I tell you in my sleepy voice the wine is delicious,
You are tempted to sample,
But if a man tells a woman he loves her
What conclusions will she abide,
Carla asked me with a stare.
Do you even know anyone who can utter the words I love you,
Without feelings of hysteria, near mental collapse,
Or worse-farce, she asked.
We tell people we love them to calm them,
To manipulate them,
To play magic tricks on them, Carla said,
Love is an adolescent stage,
A toxic teenage mix and of oestrogen and testosterone,
Romeo and Juliet were children for ***** sakes, Carla said,
As she drank half of her breakfast scotch,
And began to blow perfect smoke rings
In the mirror still stale air
Of the Rock Hen all day, all night, all the time bar.
I just know I love my dog, I replied,
And I held my finger up,
To see if Carla could circle it perfectly with a smoke ring,
Which she did.
And I don’t even know why, I said,
I guess I love how he needs me and doesn’t resent it,
Even as I disappoint him and neglect him,
Forget to feed him, force him to *** in the rain,
He still wags his appreciation with gusto.
Perhaps we can only love our dogs,
Carla replied,
Or perhaps we should all have tails,
And she ordered us lemonade and tequila
With scrambled eggs, french toast and a *** of blueberries.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
~for yocum~
<>
the quality of commitment is not
restrained by quantity, nor by size,
impressed by nylon sheerest volume,
avoirdupois grams, Imperial weight,
steeled feathers, immeasurable, one ton
tips no true scale into red lined sincerity
the necessary respectful silences it requires,
the social nearness of geo-distancing,
all need prodigal acceptance,
like a long lost son, welcomed without questioning
we flawed, banded by many weaknesses, poorly confessed,
yet, no excuses tendered, to it, long ago surrendered,
but understand this, constancy is not judged
by the frequency of our waves, but by the fervor of an
undertow of unwavering constancy
one that unceasingly rages, beneath superficial, steady waves,
and through the thickened, roughed old skin separating atmospheres,
I have grasped your heartened essence man,
found its depths, blessed it with words, you’ve never fathomed
surely you will growl at this, claiming obfuscation,
excuses not in your vocabulary, nor should it be,
though you require the steady reassurance of frequent brevity
so and yet, but and still,
I deny your claims, what you think, incorrect,
cause I know my heart, and well it kens what lays in thine,
what’s in yours is in mine, deep planted, a full nut grove flowering,
your complaints, mine as well, all part parceled, with grace accepted
for what is friendship but the path
through parted seas, joining two borders,
the best part of that is the landed connectivity,
leading to where we two ends,
meet in laughing two-gether
old fools, younger-then-than-now,
committed, grumpy men.
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 2:02 PM UTC
The "Church" of Scientology
Puzzle within enigma
People finding out the TRUTH
Now there is a stigma
There are many mysteries
Riddles within obfuscation
Their own ARC Triangle
Stops communication!
Are you following my track?
Or are you bemused?
Is their "nomenclature"
Making you confused?
Hope you brought your copy
Of DIANETICS here
You TOO can be OT
(or at least a Clear)
I won't try explaining it
Too complex, I fear
I'll talk about their OT III
Watch out, we're shifting gears...
When I was in the Sea Org
They spoke of this OT III
Did not discuss what it was
It was a mystery
It was said if it's revealed
You'd lose your sanity
But now I know! It's been disclosed
It's ALIEN HISTORY!
Here are all the thetans
Happy playing games
Enter alien Lord Xenu
He's bad! He's MEAN! He's LAME!
He gathered all these thetans
And brought them here to EARTH
On a DC3... They were
bound for all they're WORTH!
He stuffed them in VOLCANOES
Their lives to interrupt
When the cauldrons were filled
The stacks would then ERUPT!
This causes spirit problems
Well. I mean, hey, DUH!
I guess its caused some problems!
I guess it *would! HEY! HUH!
Folks, if you can **laugh at this
Just kick back your head!
This is God's honest TRUTH!
Every word I've SAID!**
THIS IS WHAT THEY FEAR!
THAT FOLKS WILL UP AND TALK.
I HOPE EVENTUALLY
EVERYONE WILL WALK
To leave Miscavige ALONE...
TO BE THE LAUGHINGSTOCK!!!*
Catherine E Jarvis
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/24/2017
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
As always, amazing, Will.
So much there in your poetic words,
like countless shapes in the clouds...
clouds which frame the sun, and those that are inclined to rain.
Poet, philosopher, artist, all know the freedom
and occasional dangers of obfuscation.
They do not fear it.
They paint, and paint,
with brushes and words of many colors and shades,
while the sunbather and the farmer wait
for their share of warmth and rain.
All is not always as it seems.
The crow learns that, at the drive-up
one has to pay his way, to "have it your way" at Burger King.
And still, despite it all,
the farmer's crops and the suntan continue to confound impotent anxiety,
while the crow makes his way beneath the benches
where random crumbs embolden him to claim his own victory.
So passes another day in the life of a poet.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 6:41 PM UTC
to the victor
belongs the
narrative
Visigoths
of the
Info Age
spin golden
zeitgeists
on looms of
obfuscation
tongues of fire
breathe rationalizations
sear acceptance
of a conquerors
sweet dominion
onto pliant minds
Edvard Grieg
In the Hall of the Mountain Kings
10/24/14
Oakland
jbm
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
#*‘Tis but the flapping of the sail,
And not a rent made by the gale*!
H. W. Longfellow
When bureaucrats, with obfuscation
monotone in data-speak
and mumble to their mutinous nation,
bloodless vessels spring a leak.
Scan in vain the rolling breakers;
leadership is out to sea.
Overscripted undertakers
claim to speak for you and me…
The Ship of State, adrift, becalmed
floats on; a most ill-fated craft.
The body politic, unembalmed
begins to ripen fore and aft.
The crew, grown callous to the rot
and numbed by such expediency
with one last desperate cannon shot
forsake all hope of mutiny.
While computers spit statistics,
crewmen spread the expectant word;
(no more trust in mere ballistics…
hope delayed is hope transferred.)
“Make ready to abandon ship !
The captain’s just a talking head.
Lower the lifeboat, let her rip –
before, like him, we end up dead…”
The Ship of State is rent with breaches
data-leakage, data driven –
the lifeboat flounders, coral-riven
seeking distant wave-washed beaches.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
19 For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity.” ------- Ecclesiastes 3: 19 King James version of the Bible
Today, I’ve tried thinking.
What that is to say:
Two words, the same, mean two different things. It is an anthropologic meltdown of madness, a twisting torrent of words tearing, a cacophony sweltering like a teakettle steaming. There is madness in the docile, and trees grow on both ends, flowering at the root often moreso than the leaves. I claim to have no wisdom, but in my abounding foolishness, perhaps, I will be wise. Two negatives when multiplied together, become a positive.
In a feeling of staying, I feel I should leave. In a tearing between body, mind, and spirit, one phrase looking as another, seeing two words as something else, saying much and meaning little.
1. Take index finger and extend it in front of lips, holding it parallel to lips.
2. Firmly place it into mouth.
3. Jar finger up and down while sputtering lips.
Much is revealed in obfuscation. Questions answer much more than answers, sometimes.
There are letters in algebra. We teach math with words. To teach is to learn. By learning, we’re teaching…others watch us learn and learn from how we learn…how to learn. Then, we learn from them, those who have learned from us.
One word is haunting in my own work.
“So?”
Somewhere, this is written already. When it’s written, it’s written already. If somebody else copies it, writes it, then they know that they’ve written it already, and all that they’ve written has been written already.
It’s an implosion of my own thought, today. I pray tomorrow, the joy of clarity of my own thoughts and writing will return, and regardless, I thank the Holy Lord God Almighty always for all things. I rejoice in Him and love Him deeply, more than all, fear Him, and praise Him, and worship Him, alone. All glory in all things to God Almighty.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
It feels like I am breaking again.
(That is a lie.)
It's just that I'd forgotten that I was broken, but I'm rousing from the sleep now, and the details are coming back to me. I am falling back out of the dreamspace.
It feels like it is raining everywhere I go. It feels like there are rocks in my shoes and nothing I do will get them out. It feels like I have shattered the gift I meant to give you, and no matter how hard I try, the cracks in the glass still show. It is ruined, do you hear me? It is worthless, and with every attempt I make to fix it I destroy another aspect of its purity. It is a paradox like everything else. I wanted it to be perfect, god ****** I knew what I was capable of and I knew what you deserved, but now hindsight's got me thinking that maybe it was broken all along, maybe I was broken all along, maybe I was wrong, all wrong.
I'm dry heaving again.
I'm trying to find a mirror out there that will return a reflection I recognize, but I keep creating fictitious images. There is no real, is there? You are not real. I was never real.
I keep wondering what's going on in all the caves I didn't get lost in. I keep wondering what it was that pushed me into this one. I have memories of falling, nothing else. I landed here. I was an explorer before that, I think, or at least I think I thought I was, wait, who am I again? Who are. . .
we?
When I was fifteen someone told me it was okay, that I just didn't know what I wanted. And I guess I believed them, because I've accepted it as a part of me, the not-knowing. I know less and less each day.
I think I'm looking for a reader, maybe, one who's forgiving and bored, one who's willing to overlook the dullness of the style and forget the (lack of) artistic merit and read this **** like letters to a lover.
They are all letters to lovers, future and past and present,
begging pardon, apologizing. That all it's ever been. I'm just trying to make myself understood, and wouldn't you know it, all I've achieved is obfuscation. Once it is broken, it cannot be fixed. I should have known that I've always known. The cracks will always show. The rain will never stop. There is no such thing as perfect.
I am sorry.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
It’s the Wholly Babble!
Obfuscation for the rabble;
Its plagiarized bunk
Delivered in hunks
And carefully rigged
To put lipstick on the pig
That means, at least,
A good living for priests.
So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.
In the Wholly Babble!
Godly, revered people
You can search and find
Many murderously unkind.
Despicable tales galore
Talking snakes and gore;
****** and genocide,
Infanticide and fratricide.
So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Miracles are plenty there
To believe every word here
To tempt you with their glory
In the convoluted story
Of two people and two kids
Who did the son wed
When one got married?
From where was she carried?
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.
And the saddest thing is
An ‘us and them’ myth is
The idea used to create
An established cause for hate.
It’s your God against mine
Yours is evil, mine is fine.
Now isn’t that a fright
To keep you up at night?
So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
History does not repeat itself, though often do circumstances and/or situations.
History does not unfold, though often lost are evidences and/or records.
History is not manifested, though often are causes and/or reasons.
History is not fabricated, though often changed are definitions and/or interpretations.
History simply happens -
Now, Here;
Here, Now.
This is Time's Nature.
Even as it happens,
Even to those party to it,
Understanding & conveying it can be difficult.
This is the Nature of Time.
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 2:03 PM UTC
I was dragged
out of trees, off ropeswings
away from friends
every single Sunday of my youth.
The big grey church
filled with frumpy hatted snobs
lit through windows covered
in incomprehensible verse
held neither wonder, peace nor fascination.
Long, agonising sits,
trying not to giggle with my brothers
and praying only for the ordeal to end
did little to fill me with reverence.
But there was a place.
There was a building in whose hallowed hush
I felt the truth of awe,
a place where universes were revealed,
imagination ignited,
questions answered clearly
and not with twenty tons of sludgy obfuscation.
The library.
I loved it even before I could read,
and afterwards, well -
it still seems incredible
that such a place could exist.
Time passes.
And the fact that the powdered old cows
can still fill the church each Sunday,
fill the collection plates,
sing their ****** songs and go,
while rows of empty shelves
gather dust in the ghost of the library
simply
makes me
want
to weep.
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 11:37 AM UTC
Alright lads here it comes full truth unvarnished
lately I feel life is tarnished,
with this Patina upon my soul,
I tell you all I won't grow old.
We won't be sharing drinks and dandling grandkids boys,
this world is grey, I'm null and void,
underappreciated hated unemployed,
a jaded unappreciative oul ****
yeah I deserve that-I can't front
no more lies but bitter truths,
lets rip these forgeries out by roots,
lets force this Gall and Hemlock down,
a deadly cocktail but I've found,
once choked down I'm Numb...comfort cold,
to you I'll leave behind I know,
believe me please...just let me go
Chorus/Sample 2
"So if you love me let me go
And run away before I know
My heart is just too dark to care
I can't destroy what isn't there
I only wish you weren't my friends
Then I could hurt you in the end
my own was banished long ago
It took the death of hope to let you go"
all right lads "order! down in front"!
a lot to take in all at once?
I know I know my lying smile
has fooled you all but it's been awhile
I'm sorry Bro I really am,
I tried my best to face the flames
but now I'm falling, no more games
no more lies Procrastination,
no more ******** obfuscation,
took the Beck Depression inventory...scored 100%!
been through a few too many ****** up life events,
more just round the corner-the Reaper awaits,
but It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
"So if you love me let me go
And run away before I know
My heart is just too dark to care
I can't destroy what isn't there
I only wish you weren't my friends
Then I could hurt you in the end
my own was banished long ago
It took the death of hope to let you go"
The End?
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 7:05 AM UTC
This split stick fucksicle... there it goes again, circling the drain...creating a distraction, truth in obfuscation... and, amongst it all, throughout the fall, there it holds, a heavy shadow tugging at her will, distended from an unearthed and then uprooted olive branch...to remain in stasis, and display the prophetic delusions of subversive prophets...who never seem to promote such blatant exhibitionism
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
The room… it held in the darkness; a self-encapsulating prison…
Silent echo.
Cautionary tales, shared through a cautionary glance, half inferred cautionary advice, to be paid off with a cautionary stone.
The serpent held its place, dangling on the sill, whispering half concoctions to the man known as death… hell followed.
The guise of honor, shown in the stare of cadaverous ghosts, with pecked out pupils.
Respect suppressed in shame
Reverie found in pain
Obfuscation in the wake
Engrossed epigraph held over the stake
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
artlessly
i cast my thoughts into space
deliberate obfuscation
small metaphors and speculations
i do not keep
written records of my follies
they arrive at the speed of light.
belonging only to themselves.
flickering blazing dying
ashes to ashes
settling dust.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC