"obliquely" poems
You act callously crude
Like Cronenberg's brood
You keep the body horror
In the naughty drawer
I feel my body's poorer
So you convince me I'm rich
Then treat me like an itch
And scratch
To detach
You invited me to your chateau
Then left me on this plateau
For my beating heart exploded from my chest
Once I foolishly entered your nasty nest
There I lay
As immobile prey
My body was infected
By your touch
And my mind dissected
Way too much
You passionately present me with body horror
I really resent you for being a shoddy sawyer
Cutting me down but not completely
Your lackluster love travels obliquely
Dislocating my horrified heart
My rib cage begins to part
As my mangled love
Escapes with my blood
My fingers are breaking
Trying to carry the relationship
Happiness I'm faking
When you crack your elation whip
When I'm powerless to the *****
I become showerless in a hurry
And my skin starts to rot
While I lie on your cold cot
You're my unforgiving cop
And the horrors never stop
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 1:15 PM UTC
Weighing brutality's candour is taxing
Feeling the certainty, heavily dark,
Sonorous mutterings echo in twilight
Whitely, loquaciously, utterly stark.
***** ***** in a temperament simmering
Stalking through rage in a judgemental way,
Lurching for conflict from deep in the mindset
Locked in a skirmish of consequence play.
Searing white pain of brutality's candour
Reeling from obvious lack of control,
Obliquely collapsed beneath blue jackaranda
Flaccidly spent, I surrender my role.
Marshalg
In absentia
7 December 2011
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 12:15 PM UTC
As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
The breath goes now, and some say, No:
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
’Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th’ earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did and meant,
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers’ love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th’ other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows ***** as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th’ other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
2.7k
Driving thru lots of
Parked cars, many un-
Aligned...
Ask you?
Askew...
Wow. There oughta be
A law or two to keep
Those cars in lines.
(Let's get Google to
Drive our cars for us!
They'd behave better,
Until they became self-
Aware, that is)
Googo-
Pocalpyse
Navigating parking lots is
Gambling against heavily
Uneven odds, the House(s)
Eventually winning by de
Fault of small electronics
Merry Christmas! Used
To hear that from just about
Every mouth and furry pair
Of lips. Now, the ubiquitous
"Happy Holidays" or as Seinfeld
So brilliantly mocked,
"Festivus for the Restofus"
The mocking is now
Knocking on our
Cultural Door to
Heck
Driving past a Fitness
Planet: the misspeled
Word "Judgement"
And the irony poking
Me in the eye is that little
"E"
That SHOULD belong nestled
Snugly in the deep middle of
That word, but, strangly, isntt...
And I'm doing what that sign
Admiringly attempts to cajole:
I'm judging. I'm judgEing.
I do this, constantly, all
My waking minutes:
Not passing on judging, but
Holding 4 aces and 1 joker...
(Me)
Hands clenched in rage as
(Again)
I steer obliquely thru parking
Lots, doing the very same
Crime I accuse everyone else
Being guilty of...
I scream...
THERE IS NO 'e' IN
JUDGEMENT!
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
Ascent
The narrow passage arched over the gaping river
like a gymnast vaulting backwards,
gracing the ground with open palms.
I began to climb--
beleaguered on both sides
by insecure concrete obstructions;
I diverted my attention to the ascending road ahead.
I continued to climb,
like a slowly chugging roller coaster,
meekly scaling up the track
with subdued anticipation.
I sunk into the road;
the sky merged with my pseudo-perpetual path, forming the offing--
where it seemed the road ran eternally into the heavens.
I saw blue reach into black in the late afternoon's
fading visage.
Summit
Gliding over the mountainous ****
I stared over the horizon
where the sun was neatly tucked
under the trees--
silhouetted against the dusky sky,
looking like fingers reaching up into the void,
accumulating like earthly pillows to a heavenly face glowing brightly.
I watched a murky blue dip into a wet grass'd green,
then a traffic cone orange,
followed by the passionate (infra)red of two lovers' entwined,
climaxing in a jaundiced yellow--
tucked neatly like a layer of film
atop the silhouetted landscape.
Descent
I wished I had
descended the adret
of my ascension's perceived perpetual offing,
rather than this gritty one--
to dip into the horizon,
where I would metamorphose
into a dazzling array of colors;
feeling myself slowly fade away
into the impending night sky.
Tucked away for another day,
sleeping under the stars,
in the fingertipped forests
now obliquely reaching into their absent luminescence
but relishing the cool night air--
silently waiting for light
to soon again
breach their gloomy shells.
[Enlightenment lingered within the visions of my ascension--
I danced with its transient spirit at the summit--
to be decimated as the car lurched downward into mortality.
I saw what could be as I moaned into the
fading afternoon's dipping colors.
Who knew the descent was the hardest part of humanity?]
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
From here and there
I hear him speak
His voice, falling in mild whispers
But he always plays hide n’ seek
At times he speaks loud n’ clear
Sometimes so harsh and stern
How he denies my wild longings
With a stubborn ‘Yes’ or ‘No’
What magic and mystery in him stored
I am at a loss to gauge
Amid the shards of my broken sleep
I often struggle to decipher his mysterious codes
I sought after him ever and ever
Down the nights and through the days
Taking him to be one from the dead,
I searched him through avenues dark
Along aisles of the dead lain in rows
And in the hallways of fame
But he eluded me like a mysterious sprite
Prancing around and hiding about
When I give up my search after him
He shouts and whistles amid the din
And I see faint truths suddenly uncoiling
Forming in me a clearer perspective of life
At the end of my incessant search
I chanced to meet him within my own self
Peering into my depths, I saw him, his face veiled
And a balance held obliquely in his hands
Lifting the veil from his countenance
I saw him clear, clear as in a mirror
Someone with such commanding air
And stern with an impassive demeanor
In the still pool of humid silence
I heard him introduce himself
His sound ringing so distinct and clear
Leaving echoes in the hall of stillness
“I am CON- SCI-ENCE,
Your alter ego
Listen to me, you shall not stray’’!
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 9:28 AM UTC
White as a sordid awakening
Hollow, shallow, swallows
Me like an aged cavern
When mother comes in
She is scared to find me
Pale and blue
The window is a hole
Curtains like bedraggled women
Clutch at themselves
She stumbles through a gathering
Of talkative charcoal
And pastel on the floor
Scattered and sallow
Turpentine twists in sweet sashes
Round and round her neck
She calls, wavering already
Diving obliquely through the sea
She reaches for me on the mattress
In the bookshelf,
Behind easels, pallete
Beneath the bridge of the table
A thousand gales of hues blow
Ruffling a thousand shadows
Thousand murmurs decieve her
Into breathing relief.
I see her heart a flickering flame:
Waves of my deathlessness
Shove her around.
Mother, mother, come closer
I call from the lean wooden
Parapet of the canvas
I dance her about in the sky
Stroke the hair, as
She cries, holding my solidity
Thin, bony; her hands shake
Like factory floors
Rancid blooms of a stubborn faith
Scotch her oak-brown skin
And all the walls watch our show
Disintegration occurs
As she searches for me
Kicking clatter and dust around
I a pebble in the pebbles of me
She picks, examines, throws
Picks examines, throws
All while tumbling
Into into into the stench
Of my keen blue decay
Brushstroke, word, scream and plea
She takes all the noise along
Into the beautiful world
Gaunt, I crawl clawing out
I am monster now
And she is painted.
Sep 1, 2023
Sep 1, 2023 at 10:55 AM UTC
She loves the music more than words,
While I'm caught up in sentences,
The nouns and verbs obliquely heard,
The slanting lines of innocence,
Too often at the end of nerves
To have our tongues make any sense,
With nothing more than broken words.
Mistakes are human, I've been told,
Forgiveness from a greater soul.
She says the songs don't sing her name,
And poetry has scant appeal.
She sings. I write. We're not the same.
And yet our kisses make a seal.
With time gone south and winter near,
I wish your legs, your lips were here.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
mood is king
I obey
every thought
ever invented
is present
they are a crushing weight
myth
creativity
the pegboard
of the human psyche
everyone pretends
to understand
a shack by the sea
the tide setting pace
gentle waves
that never cease
bleached palms
tower overhead
in the soft breeze
passion is selfish
desire comes and goes
laziness
an undeserved reputation
hard work
barely noticeable
in the din
the suns rays
light up the snow banks
obliquely with a pink tinge
the Andes in miniature
there exists
a warm place safe
from the sting
of a world
built on irony
explain yourself to no one
coldness meets coldness
there is no room for us all
success cannot be measured
either or
that is where the mistake was made
the error of duality
man, those nuns were killers
once I began a list
of principles deemed important
it was to help serve
as a guide as I steered
my way through the world
why are we so alone?
how does the time pass
so very slowly to allow
our doubts to surface
strong, impregnable, concrete
well, I hope I have given you something to disagree with
I hope that by expressing my ideas in these poems
has offered you the opportunity to cut and tear down
the sentiments and allow to see yourself, your actions
in a better more secure light, as if that was possible
Thanks and good night
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC
This morning was cold and a foggy one.
It reminded me of a past colder morning,
When the holiday hustle and bustle had just ended.
I was here....at Windwood Park,
My arms squeezed across my chest.
While briskly I walked, a strong wind blew
And by me, a flock of black birds flew...
I passed along house gardens, with Christmas trees,
With angels and stars on their tops still lighted.
Further on was a row of evergreens,
Upright, unaffected by the cold December winds,
High above the Magnolias and Hollies.
Beside the orange-purplish Birds of Paradise
Stood two smaller, obliquely grown pine trees;
Leaning, but undaunted by the sway of the winds,
No angels, or stars to show....instead, I watched as
The Crows approached, and on the tree tops, they alighted...
And then came another group of three,
And then several more followed suit,
And settled
On the nearby trees,
Blurring the tree line...until
The treetops were darkly shaded....
High above, they perch...on the grass, they search,
On the streets, they cross, pick up food, doing
What birds of the same feathers do---to survive...
A group of beaked, footed, dark crescent creatures
On top of those trees, so green with life,
Against a sky pleasantly clear and blue...
The contrasts, the events I witnessed, lingered with the cold...
A small patch of darkness...emerging,
Widening, prevailing, gaining power,
Can eventually conquer a whole world.
The White Egrets, Herons, the Finch,
The Bluebirds, Junkos and the Parrots
Usually grace Windwood Park with their presence...
Only the Blue Jay was brave enough that cold morning,
While a large number of Crows scattered,
And bravely, skillfully scavenged,
Through the wet, verdant grass,
Through the tall cans of thrash...
This morning, the cold brought back these events...and
I thought of the violence and starvation existing in places worldwide,
The prevailing restlessness, the senseless killings...the children....
No more concern for human lives...and
I thought of Nigeria...
And Pakistan,
And Paris, France,
And those that happened before them,
And those that are about to happen...
Sally
Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
...we never know what we may witness when we step out of our
comfort zones...
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
Hold obliquely this bunch of flowers with that smile,
to you my gift, "Exotic", your eyes acknowledge it,
you know how to do it, so that the selfie we post
would turn many a head, invite likes, though reluctant
needs to be counted as bullets pumped by jealous minds.
Now listen to this mandatory advice, once more
I shouldn't desist, voicing this in any case.
Don't be generous to me, expecting nothing in return
as I am your lover, in fact I myself am an exploiter,
who is shameless. isn't it the order of the day?
I am aware, it's bad karma out and out,
yet can't help it, let's be open about it,
now tell me this, how much can I bribe you,
for a grand kiss next, today's last perhaps.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
“We read to know we’re not alone.”
C.S. Lewis says, as a character in the film Shadowland
~~~
my lovers mumble when they leer and clear the
assorted sordid, livres with dust jackets, spines,
and notable ideas, POV’s that dare to offend; me
thinking seeing they’re uneasily resting uneasy, for
there appears to be some scales, mountains that need
mounting before they can successful scale my
heights, a big BE WARY atmospheric global warning
signs prior to enter my magic kingdom,
quizzes they are unassuaged they will pass
with any color schema,
let alone flying ones…
that amuses me, ah well, a sign of my changes, when
those days when a merely handsome man turned this
now skeptical-woman agog, and flushes of heat made
a breast beat, a flesh and blood chin, *** eyes, rock me
like a movie poster definition of movie poster handsome
they are smarter and when they cautiously inquire re my
diversity, a broadening array of fiction, philosophical disput-
ations, that lay and lie with me, they, and I bare skinned,
open to the ah ha! of titillating notions of human endeavor,
or British ****** mysteries, and lots and lots of history…
this commends and cerifies
my screening choices for,
when alone, I read
to know I am are not alone,
for my thoughts need hot
company, and my caress
of divers words diverges,
in so many directions, I need
assurance, insurance that the
men who wish to bed me are
capable of making love to my
mind, where stimulus and that
they can feed me endlessly a
variety of bouchées amusantes,
that wet my appetite for their
entirety
should they fail,
to for want of trying,
I comfort them obliquely,
informing them that
”We need to read to know we are not alone!”
Mar 3, 2024
Mar 3, 2024 at 8:33 PM UTC
A little glint of hope
and a smile to curve ones lips
a little inspiration given,
from eager fingertips
from a little bit of mystery,
to compelled by raw attraction
light turning into lightness
deflected obliquely, now refraction
Blissfully we are interfacing.
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 8:37 PM UTC
A lofty elevation,
A plumose cowl,
An irrefutable will.
Discretion: his calling card,
A birch-white arrow through
Viscous mauve shadows.
The strigine thief
Who appropriates your form
From the ground upward.
Predacious eyes perceive flesh and bone,
Discarded like chaff
Upon autumns threshing floor.
His talons disclosed,
Your legs shrouded
By his imperious wing.
Vaporous, you stand,
Your torso drawn ambiguous,
Upon the horizons ochre fabric.
Silken hair falls
Obliquely around your shoulders
Coalescing with the gathering mist.
Like the astringent hues in your puerile eyes,
I will fade from this night.
The evidence etched, evermore
Inside two darkling vessels.
I witnessed it all.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
I know words can't describe fully,
How I feel her truly!
She showers me always with her shining,
And I see our soul obliquely reflecting!
No one will ever love me as much she does,
And it is there from beginning to end.
How she excited to give birth to me, so greatful for being her daughter.
I am very thankful and anxious to God for giving me a chance to repeat HER!
I appreciate,
Her unselfishness motherhood,
And her unconditional love.
My first and forever, friend and fan!
She never grows old, she always does the best!
And she is, how my mother.
Mar 16, 2022
Mar 16, 2022 at 9:35 AM UTC
“Whilst smiling to my face thou
Hast plucked the ****** from thy boneless gums”
Thus spake the venomous she,
When querying the quandary
Of “The Milk of Human Kindness.”
That altruism,
Proffered by many as sincerity
In a charity bequeathed
To the disposessed and less fortunate.
Is an act which may be, in fact,
Obliquely or brazenly,
A lure to enhancement
Of personal nobility sought.
“But the quality of mercy is not strained
It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven.
Twice blest… It blesses he that gives and he that takes.”
Thus so, is ****** upon the truly altruistic…
An interminable questioning
Of the Impetus Behind the Act ??
In order to mitigate
THE JUSTICE OF THE PLEA.
How stands Thee?
Marshalg
25 July 2015
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
How did I get to where I am
Only thru the senescence of life am I
Sensing nothing earthly at this time
My spirits instantaneous apprehension knows
Shadowed by flora, contained by earth, I lay down
Auras obstructed by man made
Satin and teak, what do they mean
Slowly rising, I sense light, aromas and movement
Invalid dogmas in retrospect , passing obliquely
Obfuscating life as it was
More light, I run before the wind
This is future, I'm free
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
I am wandering.
A home does not have me.
I wish I wasn’t homeless.
Which means,
I wish I had a place that I could reside.
For more than a night.
A place that feels right
for me.
Permanently
or at least without worry of
where I’ll be staying next week.
Or even the next day.
It is pure misery.
The waiting and
the not knowing.
Because if we’re speaking honestly,
Being a refugee
is killing me.
I wish my mom cared about me.
I wish she truly understood me.
But alas it is me
Who cares for her being,
Who cares if she eats
and how she’s feeling.
Whether she’s weeping
or screeching
my love comes plenty
or it did until she took and took
and left me empty.
and no one cares about me.
what’s stopping me from disappearing?
I should just grab the sharpest object
closest to me
and get to slashing
and slitting
and cutting.
I should obliquely
forge my arm
while having a conversation with myself
“Heat the blade”
I would say
“Maybe it won’t sting.”
Yeah and maybe it’ll leave a pretty little line
that’ll remind me that my perception
has always been undoubtedly clogged.
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 5:29 PM UTC
With bodies
as with people
you notice the freckles first
and only later
the line on first white knuckle where,
accidentally, the axe went in, obliquely,
eighteen years ago.
And among the things I notice first
and ask about:
the rhythm like an engine
that will bring you shuddering
to the side of that road
waving flashers, saying
help help
waving flares and saying
hold me
wait.
Also on the questionnaire:
your feelings about the proper position
of car windows in summer.
Your slim belly:
how is it maintained?
And what is at the top of mountains?
All this love in so short a span.
I became fat like a moth
hairy antennae probing saying
What next? And what light?
A holiday passes unnoticed by.
One or two short phrases of foreign speech are learned.
A short-haired dog grows to love the Seattle weather.
In our short lives we are
reconstituted, also, like moths.
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
h
U
n
g with
just the moon your
shoulders up hold
the round round
round head of
your
body
bodyy
bodyyy
holds the down *******
of your naked chest's
white hilt springs
between round rounding
head of
your shoulders' point
pinnacle, pinnacling
at the white white hilt
of Your neck
fit fits ****
(droop obliquely)
swelling twixts
the rude triangle
of your hips
hips
hips(
and the white hilt
of your neck
blunders
with
the course forest of my hand
suddenly grown around it )
grown up it the
pillar of it to
the neat neat neat neat
***** of your mouth. There
h
a
n
g
s
the yawning chasm
where
all throats
lead to
. Scream
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
I hear your squirrel faced inflected scorn
But I am not the subject of your masquerade
There is no running from the truth within my circle
There is no hiding from the harm you've made
With nothing of the fearful scribe in me, I have become
Your challenger, your truth teller, your unveiled voice
Of revocation, Justice long denied has hurried home
To my protestations, my unyielding force for choice
There is not one obliquely terrifying word you've fumbled
That has found solace within my intentions
No remorse at hearing your lewd, vile inventions
Your nasty woman-hating world will crumble
In the blast of my ice poured upon your blather
Do you hear the drums of sweet November call?
There you will be tossed and tumbled
In reality you are no kind of man at all.
No kind of man we would embrace for any price
Though you cling fast to every dollar in your grasp
Wring benefits unearned from others, squeezer, vice
But never leader, only backward stretching wasp
Bring out your ugly legionnaires of doom to face the music
Of the young, the elderly, the strong against your hooded lies
Those who long for justice aim to curb you and your avarice
Bring here your crippled trumpet too be smelted in our fires
For every child of every mother, every sister, every brother
Father, will take no prisoners, but free the wrongly caged
To fill your coffers slaved the migrant, not today
And never more shall we sit quiet in our rage.
I call you traitor to your country, traitor to your college students
Traitor to investors, every one. You plan to win.
It's now your time of trials will begin.
Expect that it will never end.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
I stood outside smoking a cigarette
thinking of all the politicians I resent
I got light headed and hit the cement
and found pain possible to prevent.
My dead weight fell on my arm
jamming my paralyzed fingers
doing my innate shoulder harm
the pain in my elbow still lingers.
You said I should stop smoking
I said I should stop steaming
but it's my only way of coping
with the things that I'm dreaming
drawn from these things that I'm gleaming
from the top of a tower that's leaning
I see a tiresome war beneath me
and fall on my arm obliquely.
Sep 24, 2021
Sep 24, 2021 at 4:46 PM UTC
Somewhere behind my eyes as I rest
At that precious slanted sieve
A vortex forms, where life’s radio station spins its tunes
Softly, constantly, the songs of living play
Concave not convex; oh so inward bent
Songs that filter in reality
Not affectations that filter out
The real thoughts
These songs: As I listen behind my eyes
There I lie wrapped in a warm blanket
Insulated by the down of warm contemplation
Open to the possibilities of my days
Moving at the patient meter of time
Sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly
There in imagined lyrics I drive a winding highway
Up and down grade
Side to side; a 4 wheel on ice; screeching
Relief from studded treads
Fear from the dreaded cliffs of my psyche
Steering by a wheel I hold untouched
Sometimes there I hear me floating free
Like a brilliant, March 1st kite, tightly tethered
A tail of memories keeps my level
A parchment lined with expectation
Thrusts me upward
Or there I lie by a black hills stream
Toe dipping in and out the water
Like a bobber with no real hook
Fishing idle prospects
Touching life’s possibilities obliquely
Or there I am driving small autos with my friends
Us like hectic bumbling actors
Seeking the road out
Spinning around fountains spewing water
Crazy cross way paths that
Pass in phase and double back
Simple songs of truth
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
My lips are black,
I am drunk
on the hemlock, proferred by you –
my life. I am still in love with pain.
What not, the trial
tried to break my resistance.
I will walk on my hands
paraplegic legs lifting my eyes.
Why did you want me to fake a death.
She was my lover, my shadow
always walking along with me.
So, you did not authored the article
on my demise in ravines
watching the son eclipse?
Extinct, headless, corpse of a
thin warrior, obliquely refers
to the pygmy moonrise.
Grey plaques in white mind
like snakeroots, glittering
in dark gulleys of time!
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
A maverick personality with
a bohemian style of dressing.
A flowing beard and a hat worn obliquely.
He was a painter par excellence,
exhibiting his piece de resistance.
His painting was to any eye a treat
but a part of it was left incomplete.
Left inadvertently or maybe intentionally.
My curiosity got the better of me
and prompted me to inquire brusquely.
The artist answered rather politely,
“I leave it incomplete to stay away from conceit.
To avoid being coloured with it vainly.
And prevent my ego from craving more than what my skill can achieve.
The incomplete painting now made sense to me as I continued to marvel at his masterpiece.
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC