"obnoxiousness" poems
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
I quite like the virginity of a fresh notebook
the way my wrists and palms drag across its leaves
breathing life between lines in pink magic marker or the severity of red ballpoint
I like the prickly practical meticulousness of a shopping list:
a dozen eggs
one pineapple
one bag of fresh spinach
one bag of English muffins
one bottle of dish soap
I like the tender impressions of curlie cues and firty cursive
communicating endearments placed on counters such as:
TAKE OUT THE RECYCLING YOU LAZY OAF ******* <3 XOXOXO <3
I enjoy the audacity of a wandering doodle
meandering
cartwheeling
hopskotching
between
and under and over
indices
and spaces
between shopping lists and death threats
i enjoy the lingering ghost of prose shaped caverns
carved onto seemingly empty sheets that carry on for pages
until they fade like whispers into an evanescence
I crave the obnoxiousness absurdity of a to do list
daring me to take a day off from procrastination
until tomorrow
call Gramma
rent due on the first of the muuuuuuuunth
take the GRE
update resume
be awesome. like a boss.
most of all
I love the pain and joy of a poem
the way it slowly leaks from heart to mind to hand to paper
staining
spaces
urgently
faster than muses whispers
barely escaping onto lines
prolific terrific poetry
sporadic spacious atrocious poetry
I croon over the denial of the last page of a beat up notebook
the way the paper hangs onto spirals haggard
littered with stringy remnants of lists and reminders and death threats and poems and goodbyes
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
The first time we met, you were only a nuisance in my world.
The moment you spoke, I made a face full of disgust.
Who could stand that level of obnoxiousness.
Days, Weeks, Months have passed then we meet again.
We met again on a different circumstance.
You said Hi, I said Hello. You were intrigued by who I was.
Asked questions to our common friend, you were in awe.
Little did you know so was I. The vibe you gave off, the things we have in common. Hmmm is this kismet?
The timing was truly perfect. They said it plays a big role.
The only problem was we weren't right for each other.
We tried, we pushed into it but it was already a disaster right from the beginning.
We were only a mere chapter of each other stories.
Jul 28, 2021
Jul 28, 2021 at 4:47 PM UTC
Α♥Ω
GNOSIS, my friends, is alive and well,
corrupting the hearts of the masses.
They fashion a fable to fit their need until their crisis passes.
An idol from here and a text from there – just a little dabble do…
for a do-it-yourself epiphany as the counterfeit passes through.
They lose themselves in names and mantras,
thinking they’re mining gold –
while the god of this world enhances the shine of spiritual lies retold.
So get out your old Santana records, pass the **** to the left.
Listen to Jimi and Marley and worse; it will leave your soul bereft.
It’s the same old trip – the first century
has seen all of it come and go:
such transcendent explosions of heresy
are worth less than the price of the show.
In the local body of Iesous Moshiach our pastor has faithfully showed us:
nonsensical notions of Gnostic obnoxiousness
fail to enlighten – but load us
with half-truths and fantasies, cosmic conspiracies,
spiritually false revelation;
which turn on the blacklight and dazzle the mind
but maroon you in dark desolation.
So I’d like to prepare you for several short poems
exploring the way of the Gnostics.
Though I love Elaine Pagels and Demian‘s Hesse,
they fail to provide diagnostics…
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
Turns out
I am a man sized
Inappropriate
Bad idea machine
And I wish I had someone to blame
Like you maybe
I’d like to cause and affect your beauty
How I drink to stop my stutter
But only when I see you do I stutter
Is that beer on my breath
Beautiful woman?
Or is it the burning smell
Of leftover courage
I found it in a cup
Cost me five dollars
I mean
Chivalry is not dead
He and I just got lost in translation
How I still think it’s cute
To drunk text
Or type
Or
I mean I am drunk right now
Writing this
A six pack alone
And still
I can see you in the fog
Of my memories movies
Just as clearly sober
And just as hauntingly beautiful
Probably I shouldn’t tell you that
But phone in hand
I say
What’s up?
I’m drunk again.
Goodnight.
I mean
Not even fake courage
Could settle obnoxiousness enough
To be truthful
So in permanent marker
On my bathroom mirror
I remind myself
“You are an *******
Turns out
I’m an *******
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 3:43 PM UTC
When time ceases and your world falls apart,
When trepidation clouds your imminent future,
For when everything you ever held onto is lost,
and your thoughts shamble past your once glimmering eyes;
For when you stop moving your dexterous arms and just lay,
You feel pain surging through your veins,
Detriment taking over exuberance
fighting your self doubting mind off of deranged thoughts;
For once you feel the need to close your eyes
and fight off the impassiveness that blocks your sight,
For once you just wish this wound would heal,
For your toiled life to just ease into calmness,
To be ridden off the weight piled on your fragile shoulders;
Your mind seives through various ways
To feel the ubiquitous presence of ethereal light,
To curl up in it's peacefulness and inevitably give into it;
Tranquility takes the place of hurt
like an addictive shot of cannabis dissolving into your system;
You feel the penetrating urge to hold on to it
To reach out to your sliver of hope with your scrawny fingers
and grasp it tight,
Your hope of a world inoculated against the social stigma,
Rid of narcissus and his obnoxiousness;
Where for once in your troubled life you would not have to hide;
You feel your numb fingers closing over something sharp,
Possessed by an unquenchable thirst for freedom,
Wanting to insinuate yourself with the ethereal glimpse of hope;
Your breath lies between the blade of wishful virtuality and reality;
Reality, a now tormented word,
a word defining a world arisen out of
A never satisfying greed for power and erudition;
You fathom your cognisant mind to construe the moment,
To feel a sharp paroxysm of pain, a flush of wrong;
An ardor to redefine reality,
To concoct the mundane world scrupulous,
To write the wrong;
The heart now pumps blood of valiance,
Belligerence to cause insurrection,
A piquant taste to live builds up,
To fight for righteousness and to die of victory,
For it is in our nature to fight;
The blade falls into the pit of cowardice,
And reality has been chosen;
Chivalry triumphs over death
and the **** that time is begins to run rampant;
The crusade soaring in your mind now vanquished,
Your fragmented scorched life now meaningful;
For you have been reborn,
a master of time and chaste;
Reborn into a warrior,
one who has fought off the wards of death;
Whose prudence his armour,
Benevolence his weapon,
Candour his speech,
Dauntless his demeanour and
Intrepid his blood.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
There is a bubble shooting out of my hand,
And it's made of plastic hurt and loathing,
And it's as see- through as I am,
And it grows and grows and covers you,
All of you, and your loudness, your rudeness, your obnoxiousness,
Your stinky cloud of perfume and ridiculous eyeliner,
And your burnt hair and bitchiness and stupidity,
And now you're inside of it,
And it's shrinking and shrinking and making you as small as you seem,
The size of your brain,
And you're tiny next to me.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC
Comparing yourself
to others who, unlike you,
succeeded in their goals
is a feeling akin to the one you get
when you watch a bright multicolored parade speed away
its colors meshing together until it becomes
a large, shiny mass of obnoxiousness
the paraders clearly having fun, their screams of joy
slowly being drowned out by the roaring in your ears
the rise of water within yourself
filling the tub of depression
"I could have been in that parade", you whisper
as you miserably watch them leave you behind
*"I deserved to be in that parade--
but was i meant to be there?"*
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC
He did not want it.
So he tells me.
He simply did what he could
A simple gift by Lady Fate
So he says, sheepishly.
He shrugs in nonchalance
Graceless in his apathy
Yet he is given the reward.
Why is that so, Destiny?
Why do you keep me searching for you?
Why do you smirk
As I am blinded and deafened in my pursuit for the light
Some clarity, an opportunity?
And you throw it in my face?
I could so easily be mad at you
I could so easily wail in agony
I could so easily grit my teeth and curse your existence
I could so easily abandon any pretence of control
Yet I do not.
I dare not vocalise these petty thoughts
I dare not challenge you, for I am at your every whim
But you cannot stop me from asking
You cannot prevent me from questioning
Why him, why not me?
What did he do so much better than I?
As he fakes illness and emotion
As he swaggers around in brilliant obnoxiousness
What is that one talent that I am without?
Must I lay my hands at your feet?
Must I praise your questionable presence?
Must I abuse and disregard you for some show of mercy?
They say one must wait
They say ‘Be patient, every dog has its day’
Then what am I?
A miserable dead unworthy hybrid
A perverse creation that ought not to exist
That it is not given a part in even one proverb in innumerable?
You desire that I let it get to me
You desire that I grow more impatient than usual
You ****** things away from reach so I sigh in resignation, as you laugh
Cruelly, in mockery of my fumbling limbs.
But I smile
I keep the thoughts in a little box sealed away
I gather every ounce of sincerity and joy
I collect my courage, I move my muscles
Enough to speak, to type, to send, to wish
To the blessed child of good fortune
‘Congratulations’.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC
sitting in class, perfectly silent, makes my teacher ask "are you sick, autumn?"
but you see mr. teacher you would not care even if i was. My mind said only deep to the bone, but you thought my normal obnoxiousness was normal for me. Yet this quietness inside me has been wanting to break out for oh so long and now it has. why must you believe i am the wau"i" am?
why couldn't you look deeper to find the real me?
i am not silent, nor am i what you all believe me to be.
so stop assuming i will do what oyu say,
so stop believeing i will say this not that,
so stop insulting me because your insults are so ridiculous you have no idea,
your insults don't even compare to me because you don't know me,
so i beg of you to please just stop.
so i beg of you to please just keep on going as if nothing will make a differnecr when im gone.
i beg of you to stop defending me.
i beg of you to stop saying i impressed you with my being quiet when thats who i aam, i beg of you to stop being so danm ignoraant.
i beg of you to open your eyes.
for thats all i want.
open your eyes, and seee that i am me and you are you,
and that that's
what it simply
is.
so
i
beg
of
you
to
p
l
e
a
s
e
open
your
EYES
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
It took a long time to realise that the world hadn't stopped spinning to watch us. It wasn't enough to adore each other. We didn't want the privacy of our mistakes, of our rapture. We had nothing else now and that’s what we needed, never had the look shared between two people, elated the world as ours had.
It had started with supple, modest beauty, an attraction fit for poetic justice. Never before experienced tenderness; we suffocated from the heat. A simple touch had us meditating for days and now we considered ourselves soulless. Could be graced with death today and we would welcome it under the promise of eternity in each other’s embrace.
Dangerous now, not love but infatuation with the fear of our greatest loss. Existing had become more painful, the simple task of breathing someone else’s air made us sick. The closer we held one another, the more of ourselves we put in, the more lost we became. Blinded with the torment we were not good enough. How does one survive the day their heart is ruined?
And now it was over. And the world had remained ignorant.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC