"obtuse" poems
Idly stationed in the bucolic hills,
sits a stone well; unknown when abandoned.
Though her people foregone, water yet fills
as much as you can want for. In tandem,
are high trees less old than she; occluding
the view from pathless and naive strangers.
As their wish in well is to keep obtuse,
those that siren would otherwise capture.
Her drink, one thinks they'll constantly receive.
In reality, they'll only be taken.
Youth will fade as the heart minutely bleeds.
Their hollow, dried corpse will be forsaken.
And though her hole but a tall dark crevice,
I see my reflection on the surface.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 4:16 PM UTC
You infatuate me with your views
Your body sings Trap Queen but your heart's in love with the Blues
That's cool.
I got an indigo soul too
Lets connect like constellations
As I'm constantly relating you to Roman Goddesses and Egyptian Queens
You're more beautiful than Aphrodite and Cleopatra
You mentally surpass all your peers But obtuse thinkers still come at yuh
Forgive them. They know not who they size
They see your full lips and your thick thighs
Worshiping physical features so your face is often forgotten
They don't notice you got three eyes
Your Melanin Was Way Too Poppin
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 2:03 AM UTC
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
18k
the angel amongst us
~for Alexander, master splasher~
*flexibility is important when poetry writing in a warm tub and a long day ahead is scheduled; so willingly accept the autocorrect
for I am both an experienced poet and bath soaker and
believer in wondrous mystery and unexpected fumbles
that lead to to miracle touchdowns
~•~
the two mathematicians examine the angle, measure the degree of difference at intersection and bless it with an identity,
calling it by its name,
perhaps obtuse, perhaps right, perhaps both
two sets of eyes examine the angle,
study its ****** expression
the old man says:
see the angle on the clock formed by the big handle on the twelve and the little hand on the eight?
this is angle of eight o’clock:
time to stop the splashing and start the get-readying
for we have miles to go before the ocean can say hello!
little angel says angle no go
and slashes the water with both
hands to establish the firmness of his views
and change Einstein’s time from present to future
the angle depends on the perspective of the viewer
the old poet comprehends leaving a warm tub is a regretful thing
but he measures the degree of difference at this
intersection
of time and bath and blesses it with an identity
“time to go”
the angle of my angel is now 2 pointed arms, pointed straight up,
at the twelve o'clock,
as he stands up in fevered protest,
my arms sweep his little legs to
a point at eight o’clock,
angel, commenting on his swift flight
disputes the grandfathers physics
"no go now,
now go later^"
though the angle is unchanged
the perspective of time and space
(and traffic),
yet differs
one sees an angle,
the angel sees time
eternally folding in on itself*
that is the angle amongst us
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC
You-
you have a lot on your plate
and me-
I am just pushed in next to the others
that weigh you down while you're trying to carry
a thanksgiving meal of responsibility
and at the same time not be crushed by it-
You don't like it when your food touches.
So there I am waiting at the edge of all the chaos
trying not to step over boundaries or cross the line
I am just another thing thrown onto your plate
of responsibilities.
I am a shadow.
A walking disaster.
And I try to avoid all the things
that are so ferociously trying to bring you back down-
but all I do is end up making it worse
making all your **** end up touching
so it becomes a mountain upon your shoulders
that eventually turns into a chip upon it-
you have gone concave-
you became acute when you were once so obtuse
so full of life
so 180 degrees out of everyone else's ******* box
and I closed you in.
Made you realize what you needed to make yourself small
so you could eventually fit the plate just right on your shoulders.
I try to take the weight-
try to pick it all up myself and do something to help you get through
but I just end up touching everything-
You don't like it when your food touches.
You-
you are concave in my convex world
always looking inside yourself-
always hiding away inside of the parts of yourself
I will never see because I'm too busy looking outward
to find something I can do for you.
We are trigonometry-
which is the only type of math I was ever good at in school
but I can't seem to find the right angle anymore
you are too scalene and not enough isosceles
there's no symmetry in the way you look at me-
there's too many different sides to you.
I'd like to think I've seen them all
I'd like to think I've solved what degree
every angle you feed me turns out to be-
but it seems that the angles aren't what I should be finding.
You're just a circle-
I can find your radius
but I don't have enough of you anymore
to find your circumference.
We will always be abstract.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
Scalene Triangle: Here no sides or angles are the same.
Isosceles Triangle: Here two sides and angles are same.
Acute Triangle: Here all three angles are less than 90º.
Obtuse Triangle: Here one angle is greater than 90º.
Equilateral Triangle: Here all sides & angles are the same.
Right Triangle: Here one angle is equal to 90º.
And the most common triangle is...
Love Triangle: Here a lover usually cheats on the other.
I unluckily have gotten stuck in all these 7 triangles.
Never deserved to be cheated but still got cheated.
I can not hate them but still, I so often get hated.
And the mathematical triangles only bothered.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 1:51 AM UTC
It's not cute,
I don't find it funny.
The lack of concern for education,
And your glasses aren't cute either.
I'm growing quite tired of the lame leaders.
Expectation to teach the future generation.
The warriors, in a future of unknowing,
By the ignorant, traditionalist.
And I could sit here all day,
Catching glints of light off your hip glasses.
Peppered with egocentric, infantile remarks.
So cute
The lack of education
So cute
The lack of nutrition
So cute
The false profits; the obtuse teachers
So cute
Your hip glasses.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
If fools could speak of geometry,
you would be the right angle,
while me, obtuse,
I find light in the darkest places,
where the glint of the moon turns back time,
I look back,
And find you cloaked in fog,
traipsing towards me,
with no rhyme,
strafing while they bleed,
we are cogs in the handset,
we are all lost teeth,
broken and shattered,
fallen to those underneath.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
I've been blocked
well an good
by some obtuse
butthurt mindfuck
cant believe my luck!
but please unblock me
long enough
to delete your unread
message (so I can clean
up your verbal Diarrhea)
It's annoying
to me
as its messing up
the aesthetics
of my screen
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
I walked a spiraling Stare back at the abyss: Leaping forward walking I see the rage of a Cross, four-dimensional Pebbles shattered stained To the side, spiraling back,
cut-up and found what if I walked on them giant drooling drunken mirrors obtuse staircase haunted confusing gravity,
nothing up from mushrooms woman lighted flexing looping,
at apex; a mirage? that can cry; all around; tesseracts; infinite; at quantum.
Lead kindly light, vigil
voice, enlightened
woman,
angel face.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
There’s a time and season for every reason
no cookie bakes itself
cherries don’t burst on their own
cherries don’t burst ************
a bottle doesn’t empty itself to full/fill
breaking clocks is a wonderful way to **** time
ironic glory hole of blood and glass
running out of test tubes, the ***** too tight
**** reason!
INVEST!
Admiration is the state furthest away from understanding
pawns don’t need details
******** with teeth make ******** meaningful
smashing the cow softens it, …digest it well
meaning is derived from screening STD g string
of a starry eyed ******** that drowns in a sea of ******
obtuse and absolute are the only submissions
failure to comprehend results in ***********
cuckolds worth….
IMPROVE!
Lexicon laxative
this antipathy won’t last
stimulate thinking with cankerous drinking
***** ***** need no season or reason
to drown ****** who never show
the tears of heaven that understood
misled admiration and adolescent aberration
that silently candle deplorable fornication
time stays unchanged
counting doesn’t prove progress in this game
falling short… half beat hesitation
ITERATE!
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
My mother enters the kitchen, says that her hands
are dripping, begs my father to finish his work
at the sink. I observe, for a moment, the expression
upon her face which seems conflicted between
a desire to laugh and a need
to feel clean.
I interject that clearly her fate is to have
dog placenta on her hands for all eternity.
Her disgust and amusement seem equally to rise.
After she has washed herself, she speaks of
Ponyo's last intermission between long
intervals of birthing to nap three fleeting minutes;
another contraction gave way to a wriggling
new mole who squeaked and groaned with
bizarre endearment, seizing my heart and causing
its mother's head, after jolting awake,
to go limp.
Mom says it's sad-but-sweet. Dear dog
has spent herself six times already in increments
which, as they increase, draw her spirit still closer
to a totally inevitable chasm of fled energy;
as soon as she falls asleep, yet a new indignant mass
of living parts swaddled in loose skin and wet fur
shoves its way outward, forward, world-ward.
Ponyo is not selfish. Immediately after birth seven,
she begins to lick her offspring clean and nudge it
towards her belly, where it may feed itself.
"Only just got a break, and already she's
back to work."
I'm one of five children my mother has carried
and raised--and for a human, five are many!
I'm afraid to give birth even once, despite
that a greater want of mine is to hold
my own child someday. I wonder if that
is motherhood: discomfort and indecision
concerning the worth of the effort in labor,
in birth, in the weak moments thereafter--
stroking one's child's downy, collapsible head
and feeling a need to protect her, to nurture her,
that is more pressing even than the so-
alluring whispers which Sleep may breathe--
and even beyond these moments, when I have said
to my mother that I hate her (because
to me, it was obvious that I did not,
and was too callous, obtuse, and insensitive
to think that she might just believe it)
and then missed church the next day to stay
with her when she felt ill and tired--if this
is motherhood, I wonder. It must be more even
than I could ever have thought like wanting
to laugh and to wring one's hands
(and even just to go to sleep)
all at once.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
The mathematician never finished his work today
Which is weird because it was the most important project of his career.
Working on the equation for the perfect person, left it halfway done.
The other half lost in this numerical mind.
But that's what we are, two halves of an unfinished project.
A slip atom
A half of a binomial theorem
A parabola at the apex of its' focus, ready to fall right back on its' feet.
Because apart we are imperfect, we trip, we fall
But when multiplied we are a product of perfection, able to point out that mistaken branch before you have time to brace yourself.
I'll take those expanded arms and wrap them around me, feel your acute angles against my obtuse curves.
Put my hand on your neck, not to feel your skin, well: to do that too, but also to feel your pulse.
Knowing it beats at the same intervals as mine.
And no one know why the mathematician never completed the equation.
…maybe fell asleep…
…maybe distracted…
…maybe he just forgot…
But I thank him.
Because perfect is lonely and you...you are everything.
Without him the Y= to my MX+being would never be linear.
And I'm not good at math, neither are you, but I'm pretty sure we don't need to look in the back of the book for any answers.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
Contemptuous of his home beyond
The village and the village pond,
A large-souled Frog who spurned each byeway,
Hopped along the imperial highway.
Nor grunting pig nor barking dog
Could disconcert so great a frog.
The morning dew was lingering yet
His sides to cool, his tongue to wet;
The night dew when the night should come
A travelled frog would send him home.
Not so, alas! the wayside grass
Sees him no more:--not so, alas!
A broadwheeled waggon unawares
Ran him down, his joys, his cares.
From dying choke one feeble croak
The Frog's perpetual silence broke:
"Ye buoyant Frogs, ye great and small,
Even I am mortal after all.
My road to Fame turns out a wry way:
I perish on this hideous highway,-
Oh for my old familiar byeway!"
The choking Frog sobbed and was gone:
The waggoner strode whistling on.
Unconscious of the carnage done,
Whistling that waggoner strode on,
Whistling (it may have happened so)
"A Froggy would a-wooing go:"
A hypothetic frog trolled he
Obtuse to a reality.
O rich and poor, O great and small,
Such oversights beset us all:
The mangled frog abides incog,
The uninteresting actual frog;
The hypothetic frog alone
Is the one frog we dwell upon.
3.7k
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
The pen, they say, is mightier,
but is it keener than a knife?
This brittle blade of insolence,
unleashed to lash at life.
'Yeah, innit, Bruv, he got right up in my face,
cos my phone was out in lesson time
and he called me a disgrace.
Like, so, whatever, mate,
I told him where to go,
trying to tell me English,
while I'm textin' my new hoe.'
The pen is not mightier,
it is tarnished and obtuse,
a vision of a different age,
wrought blind from its misuse.
Its sapling song of innocence,
split south across the grain
and cast across the classroom,
yanked up and lobbed again.
'Do you get me, Blood?
He was pointing at a seat,
expectin' ME to sit there,
as if it were a treat.
I told him where to stick it
and called him out a clown,
I **** this one-way death pit
as I'm walkin' round and round.'
The pen should still be mighty
and not a strangled stream,
that's crawling up an incline,
like an M. C. Escher dream.
Its muddy banks lie dormant,
both acorn and an oak.
'Cut that **** you KEENO,
let's **** off for a smoke.'
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
.
1
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.
2
I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?
3
Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.
4
At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.
5
My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.
6
What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.
7
My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.
8
Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.
9
Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.
10
Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.
11
My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.
12
At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.
13
I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
.
1
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.
2
I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?
3
Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.
4
At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.
5
My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.
6
What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.
7
My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.
8
Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.
9
Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.
10
Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.
11
My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.
12
At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.
13
I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
Her name is Chang Champoo,
translated as ‘Elephant Pink.’
Met on the street in tourist Thailand.
9 years old.
6 months pregnant.
A beggar in an urban landscape.
Hungry,
grabbing sugar cane from my fingers.
Desperate for food.
Destined for an early grave.
“Where are you from?”
A question to her mahout,
in Thai hauled from fragments of memory.
“The border.”
Seemingly obtuse but not really.
Only one nearby.
Burma.
Elephants,
born in captivity,
used in logging,
now unemployed.
Teak forests of old but a distant memory.
Did I only fuel her belly
buying over-priced sugar cane?
Or did I also fuel
rampant exploitation
of disadvantaged animals?
Not everything in life
Is black and white.
Sometimes it is grey,
This night it was Pink.
How could I refuse her sustenance
when confronted by those
mournful pachyderm eyes.
The question lingers…
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 1:55 AM UTC
Medusa's juicer
Used to confuse her -
The instructions
She said
Were obtuse.
By the snakes for hair
round my petrifying face
I swear that
This juicer's no use.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
Bombs are falling in Aleppo,
the evil failed man that rules,
killing his own people,
Innocent noncombatants,
sheltering in their homes,
Crushed and buried in the
falling rubble of a dictator's
vengeful hate.
None but the volunteer
White Helmets digging
with bare hands to save
and unbury them, most
victims, irrecoverable pieces.
Occasionally, miraculously
some are spared and saved.
Through these valiant selfless
efforts.
Oh Syria, you are bombed and burned,
while the world fiddles an obtuse tune
and turns its collective back on desperate
human cries for assistance.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 6:12 PM UTC
Soccer practice, as always, was grueling
Sweaty sediment sticks until showers
But the adrenaline is still pumping
Really? Do we need to smell like flowers?
No no, athletes deserve a better scent
Testosterone and *** suit us better
Instead, let us take a moment to vent
Afterwards, wear our Varsity sweaters
Big game coming up-we want to be loose
Skin on skin, touching curves, the same as all
We do on field, don't you be obtuse
C'mon now girl, let's win, be logical
You know I cannot play my best
Unless I strip that jersey off your chest
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC