"onomatopoeias" poems
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak,
well, attire me in slavic myths and
i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too
for a helium bubble to become a comedian,
i know a jittery ******* addiction
when i see one...
if one thing the catholic schooling system
taught me was how to avoid
sniffing glue and how to recognise
a Freudian apostle - still, with all
the hippy **** you'd think
sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism
prescribed with paracetamol,
catholic education just said: no no.
**** me it's the late 90s and we're talking
post-Chernobyl antics...
but that's how i see the left, leftist politics,
the right
utilises prefixes and suffixes in the
old stance of simple pre- pro-
anti-
qua-
-so so...
the left? oh they're right in there...
their prefixes are
Marxist-
liberal-
Hegelian-
whatnot...
they don't
use abstract prefixes,
their prefixes
are concrete,
they want the porridge in their mouth
to ensure a slur that never comes,
among a range of onomatopoeias they argue
from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd,
via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech
to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother,
****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method;
i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo
experimenting, it's called experimenting with
thought rather than practising with will,
former no chance of footstep evaluation for
cult status imitable -
the left intellectual
has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro -
it has to be concrete layered and a shut off
perfect architecture without fault -
it can't be what it is -
con-
has to be conservative
pro-
has to be socialist
you once said legitimate
transparency - but you didn't say legislation -
well, the left understood it as legislation,
the right too wanted legitimate transparency -
the green party said we could have neither
but could have the replanting of a thousand
oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first
oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest...
b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye -
hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity
too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's
fingernail toothpick!
at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of
place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes!
ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding!
*** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
i must be the only one
who finds sparrows
amusing outside my window
filled with song,
the same in me trying to imitate
their song with a range of onomatopoeias
never written (thankfully, poets
who write sparrows' song, may you
be disgraced, chirp chirp,
beat-box that **** elsewhere, where
you're welcome by admirers),
the same in me laughing
at the kangaroo hops
unable to use both feet to walk
in the guttering of the carcass plateau of crows...
but there my laugh,
like the last whims of a pope when a robin presides
over the ritual outside the window on the sill...
i find pronouns unable to capture
timing, a class of words for standing still,
they just can't capture timing, they're space
orientated, a man of 70 will say the same
of a man aged 20 about a woman,
but both will be idiotic about the size of
her earrings concerning her promiscuity:
bigger the earring, the bigger the need to feed
her juiced up genitalia lips...
warm **** and cold mouth,
some say in reverse: getting ****** off
is like ice-cream being eaten...
and cold in reverse would give you circumcision
defined lawfully as **** a cold genital
assertion of womanhood will peel the skin
right off... ask for a cake you''ll be welcome
away from the bony **** of your hand's embrace...
perhaps marriage... and that cold mouth
that encompasses all hidden glaciers;
still, the **** is about sparrows in rain rain gutters
hopping along to the orchestra playing only
one tune that's ha ha ha.
all in all, when aroused, one hole warms
up the other cools down... the third?
don't know, don't care, apparently it's exhilarating,
trying to turn men onto all three
and away from homosexuality,
with the fourth (woman's ego) being missed...
could never equate that to a phallus and a hole...
i always felt ***** by that thing, the fourth dimension
once the **** was explored... it's all Dostoevsky after that...
everything is permitted, no deity exists,
i guess a the end is required of such a poem as this.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
why do i have to be a dog for my cats?
the male one is teasing my
neighbour's dog...
the dog starts barking,
doesn't stop...
so i start barking...
a dismembered word
rough with a range of
neared onomatopoeias...
i hate barking, it never sounds
like a dog... more like a
dinosaur... Ra! (a name for a roar),
a tongue's trill at the bookie's in-between...
i hate barking...
or like at the chemists, an old man and me,
i had the seat, asked if he wanted it,
he said no,
we were both waiting for a prescription...
'well, if you're not taking it
i'll stand with you in show of solidarity'
my arms folded like a pigeon or a crow
strutting... well, if he ain't going to sit
i'm not going to sit either....
there you go, solidarity, **** Wałensa...
mushy mushy overgrown moustache nozzle...
brr brr... do the motorboat of oral ***
like you're expressing shrivelling watching
the northern lights! yep, got you...
selfie taken... now make a pose for
Lactose Falls of the waterfalls from your
eyeing ******* yep... that's a happy couple...
take two! no, you ******* go off and wait
in the tourists' queue
like the other 100 ******* did politely.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
Step one is waking up
and writing about your day.
I want to talk about language,
your mothers cheapest wine and worst blueberry jam
staining all your best clothes with verses.
Vignettes appearing all over
the rented tuxedo from the wedding.
Dark ink and oil separates in a margarita glass
soaking into the cuts on your dry lips,
dusting your hair and the spaces
between each individual vertebrae.
Syllables dripping from the tip of your nose
and fingernails
leave novels on the linoleum and
books of sentence fragments on the hardwood.
Poets bleed into cracks on fine china
pooling into poems.
Space heaters emit quotes from dead people
I sign each word when
the analogue clock ticks,
each poem adding another minute to the day.
I’m always hoping I can squeeze in a few more hours
so I can watch the ****** orange sky
with grass in my shirt,
the Pixies mumbling in the background
leaving lyrics trapped in my teeth.
Anthologies of letters
between man and his dog
hidden onomatopoeias in every backyard.
I'll write you 364 days of the year
too many paragraphs to fill the barbecue.
Burn through pages with paper matches
making enough poems to last a decade.
Transfer phrases into the soles of my shoes,
I want to walk on water,
the "W" curled up beside my baby toe.
Every inch of the fabric we call skin,
stamps and ink pads,
turn everything to poetry.
Despite seas of fog
where breathing stops the words
from forming in your throat,
the only way to express is by experience
and frantic fountain pens.
Smoke on the balcony
writes starry sonnets about the girl in your bed
lining the waxing moon with poetry,
a **** homage to Shakespeare himself.
Serendipity;
finding something good without looking for it.
A feeling I have encountered
keeping my breathing sporadic,
rarely setting me on fire.
Living Chinese finger traps
burning blue poems on my palms
splotching the back of my neck
licking up my thigh and hips.
Let me throw away my common sense,
the final step of becoming a poet.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
one man on the windowsill
imitating monkeys
ooh ooh ah ah
went far with the onomatopoeias
of tarzan able to sift through
onomatopoeia into syllables
into letters... and it took
about the same time it took
the dinosaurs to be extinct....
ooh ooh ah ah... ha ha...
god give this monkey the fur
and that man the nobel prize....
i'm guessing both will claim to be swedish:
ooh ooh pooh ah ah!
english society doesn't like philosophy,
it doesn't like questions, it just like facts;
smell my armpits for a digression,
smell my armpits for a who'd do it, who'd ever don it,
maybe a breezy mullet fringe for the *****
for the whiff-up we call a gel-up;
ooh ooh ah ah lifting of weights to exercise the triceps.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 10:08 PM UTC
su sussidio... oh oh.
cashier tarah talks, talks,
really talks, 6 hours east
to sri lanka, 12 hour flight, 15 hours
back, mother in law died,
sorry, yeah, something
got my boy out of the womb,
dubai was lost
as a terminal worth docking at,
too much shopping
too little insomnia...
but i just came in for my whiskey
and my coca-cola...
chubby cheek tarah hasn't
asked me what i do...
oh you know, i write poetry,
the stuff pop artists are famous for...
not actually doing...
i was never a serious gamer,
from tetris and su doku i progressed
to candy crush sagas... you know,
i didn't get the multiple-choice narrative
and the lost joystick freedom
of up down east west,
instead getting short snips of a story
unfold with a quick-drawn press button
action draw of the story unfold;
i wish gaming appealed to me
like the way advertising companies
got fooled by the way television works
these days: oops, paused five minutes
into the show, then skim eyed the adverts
past not even caring to be influenced
by consumerism propaganda...
i love it, i can finally watch t.v. and skip
the adverts!
thanks for the detergent and salt and pepper,
raw materials on the ready,
you improve your aesthetics elsewhere,
i'll drink my cheap whiskey with
cheap phosphoric barley tinged caramel
cola quicker than you can say the tongue tie:
eager ****** had the weakest liver
bone munching onomatopoeias of ribcage rattle.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
i never understood why people decided to couple such symbols into images esp. in fictional narratives rather than see the sound in lipstick smooched for symphony; how hard you try, the a to z will not provide you with a mental cinema image of a giraffe; more like a gaff, and what's a gaff in photo? leopard on giraffe or a giraffe on a leopard, because it's all very fine telling the narrative of traffic coordination evolution coming back from africa with the zebra to suit pitchfork stoppages in hay on the redneck lazed walk. the sole reason why it's understood: fiction is the use of lettering for the creation of images, poetry is the use of lettering a bit like a waterfall for a bored emperor apprehensive of the sound of thinking; and philosophy is the reverse of all that, strike two flints together, and enter the realm of ideas with the onomatopoeia of the image - given that onomatopoeias act like surgical scalpels, or a miscarriage of ideas bundled up for something else by kandinsky; actually, saying that, onomatopoeias are images in motion, prior to the movies, when all you had was a painting embraced by a fancy rim - still life of decay of the royal flotilla on the thames with a mouth moving: chatty chatty boor of a bloke who talked.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
a salmon with other sea fish cropping up flying
into a butterfly net:
before the assemblage of bacon
into the mouth watering eye.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
to have seen a thousand flamingos
strut invoking tide -
on a boneless march into marsh of
a bubbled gill of fish popped for whatever name alive,
or dead in the disco crescendo for a nixon:
tears of a robot had always the glory of man laughing akin;
since annexed was the dualistic ambiguity
of the theatrically mistaken two masked.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
I’ve been trying to fall asleep for 17 years
leaving blue imprints of my face on pillow cases
a signature of each dream I’ve had and forgotten.
Take me to church for my medicated tongue
and butterflies on my cheeks,
in a week
I’ll rest my forehead between the pews
on thick books of medical literature
again and again,
pressing a tiny cross into my skin.
I am not a religious person;
my poetry is about the silent h’s in words,
rhetorically questioning rhyme,
sedating my hair into thirds
and braiding my fingers with thyme.
Sacrifice a rib for a sheet of paper,
write me all your recipes,
notes on world history and
a list of pros and cons of living in Berlin.
Onomatopoeias keep me up until
6am
with wide eyes and albums of expired polaroids.
Dilated voices in fluorescent hallways
mix with the whispers of comfortable shoes,
hoping for good news.
After 17 years, my hands are shaky
my kitchen counter has a S-S pillbox
and I love the sound of sleepiness.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
I can't say what I want to you,
because it is held up in my chest,
I want to scream and let it out,
but I fear that is not best.
They always say never show your hand,
for a modest man is admirable,
but now I must make my stand,
and put myself all in,
by telling you that I love you.
It is not just a love that you see in the flicks,
or the type that you read in the books,
my love is like a thousand bricks,
landing upon your head.................
**** the formalities. **** the artistry.
There is no art in love,
there are no metaphors,
similes,
onomatopoeias...
There is only that unheard of force which keeps me going,
the battery to my soul,
the engine to my heart.
There is only that unheard of lift when I hear your voice,
it flies me above the clouds,
letting me see what I can be.
The only art which I can see,
which involves loves beauty,
is the masterpiece that the lord made,
when he graced us with you my fair maid.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
Onomatopoeias
They are setting up camp
On the tip of my tongue
Sarcastic tooth fillings
Profanity coats my gums
My lips chapped from social phobias
I fill the empty spaces of the conversation with senseless banter
I avoid the waiting faces
Making no eye contacts
Trying to come up with a response
What would you say we are?
Acquaintances?
Strangers?
Aliens?
Or friends?
Trying to give off a certain vibe
On the listens, smiles and invites
I don’t know you
You don’t know me
But that doesn't mean I’m not interested
Small talk is an obvious front
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
*I can imagine staircases already
From her legs up,
The sassy strut divine
Of deities descending,
Her curvatures, delight,
Carefully cascading, lather me
As hands on her hands, as fingers,
Or ***** my spirit.
I am nowhere near my mind
Within her mind,
The clauses of her mind, this flower.
O her oblivious flower, opened, bare and all.
I can hear it all already, all,
Her steps deceptive,
The pleasant cries and onomatopoeias,
A princess or a pheasant somewhere,
Surrendering, the grin
Of suffering.
I can sense it, feel it, peal it from our canvasses,
Which were carcasses for so long, taste it,
O sweet molasses,
Which intimacies were hers,
Were mine.
We're mine alone.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
or as they say in china -
english and the staggering geographic region
it occupies, you’d expect it to implode,
or at least living in such a region the implosion
would leave many many loopholes
to break as many laws as there are laws to break,
the really imaginary laws about how
ol’ McDonald had a farm - a list of the usual onomatopoeias:
puck puck cluck cluck pig’s ******* snort and the crafty moo mime
ending with dictator orwell talking into the pig’s ****
‘yeah... let’s copyright the words einstein, red and coffee arabica
and sue the ******* should they use them without our permission!’
then the problem arose...
there are no proper onomatopoeias for
the majority of sounds contained in this fish bowl
of stars and vacuum cleaners...
or as they say in japan -
yes... just keep en route of appreciating alice in wonderland
and think nothing of it, keep en route on this “serious”
literature... also have it in cutiepie (q t π / forget the sense)
and ***** ***** ***** then watch the fireworks display
on the thames with charles 2nd and händel...
we’ll just brutalise the world in cartoon and keep the gore there
heavily coloured... while you keep this bright colour usage
squidgy squid clean.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
What the f---
Your profane sentence is stopped 3/4's of the way by a loud sound
CRASH
There it is again
CRASH
Buildings around you start to tumble
All of a sudden you hear new sounds
BANG
Goes the building
BOOM
Goes the car
You're in the middle of all this chaos
And all you hear are onomatopoeias
People are running around you
With their mouths wide open
CRASH
Goes the girl who you had a crush on in High School
BANG
Goes the man who ruined your parents relationships
BOOM
Goes the woman who made your life hell
The only noise these people are making are the sounds around him
It is a symphony of chaos
And he is the director
He stands in the center of it all
With his hands up high
Holding the final not of the finale of his composition
And then
CRASH
BOOM
BANG
Go the pieces of the building
Falling on him
Instantly killing him
But in the state of death he's in
He hears a faint roaring from the crowd
Roses are falling to his feet
"They loved it"
He smiled to himself
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
foxes are hyenas of the north,
i don't know
whether they feed or
do otherwise,
when they dry cackle their
onomatopoeias
that i imitate with laughter
once a while;
but they do sound congregational:
so much so that i would expect
an european to be a better import
than god to american society;
but the sounds of the night
that come from these gingers
seemingly laughing:
foxes are hyenas of the north.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
i never understood why so much theory
and talk and psychoanalysis
went into the oedipus complex,
while the synonymous antonym of
the complex bound to Electra was
simply reduced to the spectrum
of onomatopoeias of a woman having ***
why did men require long hours
spent on a couch and women got away
with about an hour of ***********
before either party reached the summit
of ***********
i guess in woman's egoism, i'm still
but a ***** and she, a god **** inviting me
to obstruct interpreting life by interpreting dreams.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
And on some days
I just can't write.
I skim through pages
and
scribble my name a thousand times
and
End up realising,
I just can't write.
My diaries and notebooks lie open,
Blank,
White.
I look at my own words
and
End up realising,
I just can't write.
I stumble upon words
And fall insides holes of oxymorons,
And I end up realising,
my name and writing together are also an oxymoron.
I look for inspirations and motivations
But end up realising,
I just can't write.
I personify my emotions,
Add similes to my feelings,
Just like a heart broken by love does.
But I still end up realising,
I just can't write.
I read poems and stories
Of writers who could write,
Feeling, maybe someday even I would be able to.
I battle with metaphors
and
Scratch the onomatopoeias,
I injure the meanings
and
Spill my thoughts through my veins.
I shout " Alohamora " to my heart a million times.
I trace through the lines of the endings of my stories.
I try to go on like the brook forever,
and
I hear the voice of the solitary reaper in the daffodil fields.
Yet, as the day ends,
I end up realising,
I just can't write.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 9:12 AM UTC
I haven't written since you left,
This is my fifth attempt to write something poetic.
Unfortunately, you stole my metaphors from the tip of my tongue
Left my onomatopoeias stinging on my lips
I must have left my similes in your hair
and on your neck where my lips touched
This is my fifth try
but it's still not poetic.
-(j.a)
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
rapping,
or what’s called
plagiarism,
ripping ****** and sneezing on vinyls,
popping ******
and saying it was originally
a marijuana ****** on sunday
in the garden of expectation
and inspiration.
sure they rapped,
but rapped to someone else’s beat,
james brown’s crotch violin
pose slicing a slouch readier than elvis
on the fisherman’s tackle of the upper lip;
sure... english stiff upper lip, but american elvis lip;
i simply cannot conclude with all the necessary onomatopoeias.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
the rain is collecting onomatopoeia (rare
to find a word with plurality in it
misspelled in the geometric hyper-linear
onomatopoeias) -
ever think of the womaniser bred
from feminism? i know you haven't,
and i know you won't before playing
the Shelley game of test-tubes -
your ideals i'll never die for -
i'd be in the trenches during the first world war,
but your world, i don't want to be part of.
she read Huxley, he played football -
he was an outdoor kind of guy,
she was a moth rather than a butterfly,
a new breed of womanisers has spawned -
turns out my kind are the idiots -
well... hello darling, welcome to the real world.
the rain is pouring out there, god playing
piano, looking for both onomatopoeia and metaphor...
it's drain drain drip... it's hospitalised drain
drain drip and the words that encourage
the wholly vacant - the rain -
imagine the evolutionary tactic approached with
assimilation, the invisible immigrants i call them -
they're there, they always want
the dumb innocent Alexei Karamazov to marry,
but when it comes to the events via Ivan as
hidden wedlock, they want the knights of Charlemagne
to bitch-slap them silly for the crown of menopause -
i.e. what if i wasn't a woman and never wished
to be one?! freeze the ***** invoke onto me
a belittled version of ****** - you know you are neo
accomplices, and now defence from feminism will
spare you such association;
just remember why the Nazis loved science,
feminists love it too! more in the extreme -
all that's missing is the eradication of Eastern Europeans -
a fear of Russia - most feminists are in love
with the potentials of science like Nazis -
i kept my phallus in a pickle jar to prove her point
that she wanted to reign over the role of the Paraclete
as the comforter of futures to come -
god she loves the fascists - the womanisers in
feminism and the idiots that marry her -
leave her! let her utilise the full potential of a Frankenstein!
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
if you spot any spelling mistakes, it's due to the html.
first match, kick-off 12.30, woke at eleven, door-knock
hangover, whole body, not the amateurish headache
off the binge on a friday disco, sun shining, god almighty
sun shining - eyes like a vampire's,
itch upon itch from the sunlight,
turn it off! turn it off! turn it off!
placed the 5 quid bets on three forms,
spotted all the metaphysical ****** addicts
of anger in the bookie's shop, felt odd watching them
addicted to the futility of the monetary system.
went back home, overcast came and my eyes were
very much pleased, took to drinking
the best bet odds i could ever get,
8-9 of a bottle of whiskey, started reading
articles about david bowie, and realised,
artist? maybe. entertainer? predictably yes.
the comparison? entertainers attract critics,
artists don't - entertainers attract idol worshippers
centre stage, cult gimmicks, artists pulverise
those heathens with fear, remorse, repulsion,
a one-man show attracts one-man passers-by;
where art flows freely criticism does not follow,
where are flows freely criticism does not follow,
why would it? giving the majority of people
treat art in a debasing way, keeping it a pastime,
a hobby, a way to unwind, a way to test their "creativity,"
to be less boring than the average paper-pusher
pencil-sharpener suit... look, you chose the ease life,
deal with it! i don't want your creative crap in my mailbox;
the last thing i want is a person with roughly 20 poems
to their name, and that lovely phraseology of:
i love languge... i'm sure you do, esp. telling me to be
conscious of metaphors and other techniques,
and a vocabulary so rigid that i'd get more fancy from
the range of onomatopoeias not noted from the animal
kingdom... go on... write the adequate lion's roar.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
*in english slang: you're a bit of a ***
hence not holy water in russian orthodox,
but holy fool.*
and as david bowie according to w.h. auden saying
'he became his admirers,' i too, but i don't care for admirers,
i have this strange affinity with alcohol,
i'm morose dirge clipping in the night,
but during the day, i speak variations
of peacock onomatopoeias to cats
and laugh a dry fox's laugh
that insists on operatic regurgitated phlegm
for ointment for a vehement approach
to the sung piece of work:
much of our cognitive faculties are
based upon translating optically phonetic
symbols into action, unlike gob-gagging-droop
of seeing the creases (kreskówki, crayon drawings)
of colour upon colour, supra-colours of fantasy
that leave us speaking very little,
much is designated for the ah, within the framework
of dentistry's 'say ah...' aaaaah... good, not the filing
and implants. i lied, there are actually two
aesthetic phonetic units among actual diacritical
units in the polish alphabet: ó (u) and ż (rz, e.g. rzeka / river)
ę and ą are imitable by crouching with the knee bend
of the vowels - still the russians choke the joke:
'polish is all sh sh sz sh sh sz sh sz,' no tak, i szczepta soli /
a pinch of salt.
and when i die, and die i shall, i want the shamanic winds
to turn me into deer and foxes, my greatest patrons
of the senses - and if i die in my sleep, i will never rest
for having the opportunity of looking death in the face
stolen from me; how many painful blinks it might take,
death conscious than death in my sleep.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
onomatopoeias proved to us the existence of actual realities with our inability to encode them given our phonetic vectoring of assertion and amiable frames to conduct the practice of farming (e.g.), onomatopoeias showed us the boundaries, we can hardly write the sound of rain with the 26 notables, so we turn from the practice of onomatopoeias and raise the flag of imagery with so so many comparative associations, like, like, like / akin to.
after i ate cat snacks
i realised two thing...
a. cats have a really coarse palette
in terms of taste-buds
b. i never intended my poetry
to be read, esp. by me,
so it seems i'm looking for
an orator; a bit like chopin
looking for a pianist
to play the silencer notes
of scores, written in the realm
of chaos of surd musical notation,
gangrene on the page;
readily amputated,
i never write to speak it,
i'm looking for a slave to do the fiasco
for me - sounds cruel,
but i guess kindness comes at a price.
he's just a pianist and gets to be called
an artist - let' just say he's a learned
decipherer of scores...
london was built on grime & grit...
liverpool was built on ore-land (northern eerie land),
my heart was left in scotland...
i never write for oration -
i left my heart in scotland, dancing on the roof
of the old college (of law).
honestly, the thinking of musical composers
always fascinated me, that schizoid-arena
of near-to-miss theological theory of
predestination working in them,
the ability to see the sound lag of a violin
or a cello, decipher it and note it down
in the universal language of music,
forget Esperanto... noting down the sound
of a raindrop, a hammer striking a nail,
i'm jealous of this enigma... i truly am
and i am unabashed by it...
my musical expression seems so dumb and quartered,
i've been given the rhythm section of the composition,
the parameters of punctuation...
i'm not jealous of prose writers,
they're the ones that say: an opera for an hour -
they define the longevity of the **** thing,
i possess power over yawns and impromptus
of the orchestral cowbell known as the silvery triangle.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
i sit perched on a windowsill bored like any bird,
it's spring, busy time for the birds
getting mortgages and what not,
trying to stink out the cuckoos to stop
being parasitic and build their own,
in human terms an anti-robbery,
but it's not really boring, beer and the afternoon,
stefan zweig being more of a feminist
than all women i've ever heard talking,
that's the jew talking, loss of ******** eager
for a ******** marilyn manson's the gardener,
the bass man, got to layer over the drums,
bass does that... of course there can be some
insects floating above the bass doing l.e.d.
details, but when a bass guitar overpowers the drums...
that's when **** gets real...
so me and the birds... a three-way cuckoo dialogue,
two males trying to fight with that
funny: i can't walk without the agitated neck
rhyming with my strut... i can't walk without
nodding all the ****** time...
i ditched trying to capture the moment with
onomatopoeias, the dialogue runs like:
yeah ****** yeah?! want to start something?!
***** don't tease me! this is my roof!
na'h ***** the roof and the pussy's mine!
come on! let's box it out!
wait a minute - i'm not going to box it,
i'll peck your eyes out!
had i a chance for horns i'd ram you into
a pit of varied parasites!
****** come on!
so it's a lovely afternoon, stefan zweig,
pays lovelier compliments to nietzsche than
any woman could... she gave birth to one
******* he's a queen ant, giving birth to minions
and what other terrible function of society might
need...
i start saying something out-loud to take a break
from thinking and a crow begins croaking... cra cra cra!
then my cat begins playing with my neighbour's dog,
i protect him and start imitating barking...
then i play an autistic vector game
of trying to spot the point of interest that cats are
prone to suggesting...
it's this feline ping-pong... you look at something,
he looks at something, you measure up on
a mutual point of interest, flick the head
between point (a) and point (b), and hey presto!
feline autistic ping-pong.
woof!
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
*yes, i understand the politics, or so i thought,
that biology will never spawn a humanism,
that darwinism will only spawn generic attempts
via disregarding existentialism sweats.*
when was the thought ever conceived,
that dialectics needed a mediator?
why would a mediator be needed
when the only mediator
is a park bench in athens, and two people
speaking?
i get the foul animals' existence, i get the whole
wild heart, and shrinking eyesight,
i get that animals are given pristine materialism,
being incubated by overt-sensual impregnation,
i get that they're impregnated by pure sensuality
(over-use of adjectives is like quantifying things,
as many qualities to the legions of ants
as attributes of the sun, ending with deity
and beginning with geometry),
animals are plagued by sensuality,
they are overly given the pentagon,
while man is given the hexagon / star of david,
animals are overly sensing, man is overly thinking,
when the only phobia of wilderness animal
is huger... man's is spider, enclosure, open-spaces...
animal is pulverised by the senses and things
it roams among... man is pulverised by thought
and nothing, roaming ingenuity by the Libra
dimming sight with hearing for classical composition,
dimming hearing with sight for pablo picassos..
the wild animal in fright of hunger...
and man abounding in it to reflect clocked
chicken press of the laid eggs clucks a sudden diversion
rather than adding to a diversity...
change the poetic gimmick of rhyme...
don't end with synonymous spelling,
intertwine rhyming elsewhere, lie:
'a sudden diversion' and 'adding to diversity'
as engaging to lines without an a# a# end of both
to reveal a missing echo, after all echoing is like rhyming,
but pitiful rhyming, because it's written down
and never plotted to decipher plato's shadows
and candle in the cave entered... defeated first-step
defeated to claim the colour of defeat, the page
that dangled in the odds of waving like a signature
digitalised... all in all... animals are overly sensual,
and man is overly abstract... hence man
mediates symbols and thinking... while
animals mediate onomatopoeias sounding a bit
like touch on wood, and the parameters of allowed
petting:
we blink thrice and think we spotted
a thing only once, when in fact thrice.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
the foxes rounded the wolf into a hunt they once claimed to be victims of; i only started to pawn my face for a paper mâché mask when, reason being: i couldn't look at your reminding "human" face capable of a white wine toast over dinner to scone and clear a conscience: for a jam lodged pauper in being fed the sweets jelly.
a dry call of a fox couples
itself to a wet cry of a wolf:
the smoker's ha woo
in fox in him
compliments
the northern aquatic frozen
tonne waved in
the atlantic forever in
guised goodbye;
the fox with its dry claim
mates aired, relieves
the lost wolf the lost land
to crave once more
a ripe 1 primed on the digit.
so many foxes
surround the one howled remark
of wolf;
dried up orphic of the one
night song suggested
to the human tongue
lost among fears and onomatopoeias
sojourn with autumnal
gravity of darkened brown
rekindled next year.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:11 PM UTC