"ostentatious" poems
.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.
Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.
With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.
The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.
The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.
© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 5:51 AM UTC
Proud little peacock
Plumage up for display
No need for repeated mocks
No need for you to say
I can clearly see
For we may be quiet but we have eyes
Strutting conspicuously
Showing off your prize
We already know you have it
We all do
On the sidelines we sit
Seeing you through
Tell me little bird
What do you get
When you say your words
Were your objectives met?
Everytime I hear them
Just makes me gag
I'd roll my eyes
Just hearing you brag
People'll give you
When accolades are deserving
But I suppose they're never enough
'Cause I still see you parading
Well I know I may be unpredictable
A tad bit capricious
To be honest, you...
You're simply being ostentatious
...and it's annoying the hell out of me...
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
(For Timothy)
Twas a short poem I was reading...
I had started writing my comments, when...
A very strange feeling rushed through me.
With very strange thoughts:
"This... has exactly happened before...
This poem, I have read before...
Written these very same thoughts before!"
Over and over, I blinked...I had to make sure...
But, all at once, one brief moment...
I found myself seated beside a grand piano,
By a wide ostentatious stairway,
In a bright, candle-lit mansion...
But, stranger still, while I was writing,
My eyes strayed to my right,
To a mirror by the wall...
I saw a handsome young man,
With slightly long curly hair,
Wearing a long-sleeved, white ruffled shirt
And a pair of dark pants,
Holding paper and quill,
Looking back at me...
I was staring at myself!
I was holding a paper
Where I had written my thoughts
About a poem titled
"WILT...."
( November 5, 2013/ 2:00PM)
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
resuming textual trip
testing experimental procedures
visualizing model tsunami
augmenting facetious environment
catching abstract architecture
noticing rhythmic exchange
projecting subtextual database
airhorning reggae royalty
adding atypical party
resolving twitter question
noticing emotional mission
awaiting emotional dialect
installing metaphorical experiment
intensifying animated trip
displaying dynamic victory
programming abstract development
releasing emotional exchange
deriving fata morgana
glorifying referential sequence
intensifying facetious map
noticing harmonic trip
observing radical ratio
compiling nomadic message
predating google rebranding
reticulating facetious panda
using hyperreal feedback
exploring virtual panda
speculating graphic gallery
throwing mundane exception
targeting graphic experiment
replenishing emotional trap
localizing asemic animal
dropping rhythmic trip
propagating immortal experiment
displaying lowercase database
invading orange bubbles
crashing animated trip
running conceptual topography
remembering collapsed buildings
crashing hyperreal coverage
propagating hyperreal stipulation
finishing western library
envisioning neon tessellation
reciprocating network likes
processing animated device
releasing haptic quality
examining building seven
awaiting rhapsodical ratio
sampling death sauce
sensing lowercase clone
examining symbolic tour
processing potential development
encapsulating spatial lottery
displaying digital paragraph
reticulating theoretical source
perpetuating western paragraph
transmitting monochromatic structure
anticipating ambient quality
transmitting asemic environment
intensifying atomic quality
remastering history poem
keeping future light
hypothesizing eternal game
using future library
rearranging masonic language
transmitting masonic development
continuing ceremonial ritual
questioning party's legitimacy
deferring western coverage
finishing asemic hypertext
mollifying ostentatious presence
synthesizing allegorical icon
forming categorical unions
sketching app wireframe
programming immortal repository
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
(a second time posting)
T'was a short poem I was reading...
I had started writing
My comments,
When...
Along came a very strange feeling,
With very strange thoughts:
"This... has exactly happened before...
This poem...I have read before...
Written these very same thoughts before!"
Over and over, I blinked... had to make sure...
But, all at once... one brief moment...
I found myself seated beside a grand piano,
By a wide ostentatious stairway,
In a bright, candle-lit mansion...
But, stranger still, while I was writing,
My eyes strayed to my right,
To a mirror by the wall...
I saw a handsome young man,
With slightly long curly hair,
Wearing a long-sleeved, white ruffled shirt
And a pair of dark pants,
Holding paper and quill,
Looking back at me.
I was staring at myself!!!
I was holding the paper,
Where I had written my thoughts,
About a poem titled,
"....WILT...."
Sally
Copyright November 5, 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
::::::
Below is Timothy's poem,
the reason for my "Deja Vu."
WILT
The wilting of the flowers;
Ephemeral bubble bursts;
The last grains of sand run out;—
I wilt just like flow'rs.
~Timothy~
Dodoitsu.
© Timothy 30 July, 2013.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 9:17 PM UTC
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineation
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
trying not to be subversive
but all I can think about is how those curves bend
feeling hedonistic
Hippie aesthetic contrasting my forlorned apathetic
visage
You've got me pleasure-seeking
Ostentatious displays of intellect
But im feeling decadent
Lay a kiss on my cheek
Soothing lips like lavender and peppermint
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 4:39 PM UTC
*White.
Female.
Middle Class.
Heterosexual.
Agnostic.
Libertarian.*
Yeah.
That's me.
That's that first layer,
thin as the paper you could
read it on.
Just a
Jane Doe,
a nameless, faceless
demographic.
But peeling back the layers,
ripping through page on page of a complicated novel,
digging
down
into
a
bottomless
hole
to
China,
unravelling
the intricate
web of
stereotypestruthsliesassumptionsprejudice
and
there you will find
me,
a colorless genderless asexual
spirit whose frame
is crafted and molded
not with how the world
chooses to see me and
who "they" deem me to be;
no.
A guy that didn't know me well
once told me that I
spoke more urban than he
expected,
and I couldn't help but wonder why
someone from an urban area
couldn't speak like they were
from a city,
like somehow what he saw in my
whitefemaleheterosexualmiddleclassagnosticlibertarian
prologue forbade me
from speaking in colloquials and
abbreviations.
Oh, I apologize,
I laughed later to my friend,
**law students are supposed to speak
with an ostentatious vocabulary and
an heir of
(superfluous) arrogance.**
I am rarely a prototype
of what it means to be
White,
of what it means to be
female;
middle-class or not,
my parents insisted at age 8
that I begin to understand
the value of a dollar;
my sexuality indicates little
about my level of attraction
to the world around me;
agnostic is really just a term
I put because I'm still trying to
figure out whether I really
believe everything I was forced to
learn at Catholic school;
and isn't Libertarian just a fancy
word for I don't want to
choose liberal or conservative?
It's insulting to
ingest how much is
insinuated about
my depth in
the shallowest of pools.
My cheeks burn hot
with frustration as I
try to balance on a beam
cracking underneath the weight of
a world that is constantly begging me
to go back in the neatly
wrapped package from which
the world would prefer I
came.
I'm not someone
you can put in a *******
box and
label;
you can't contain my
shine behind
blackout blinds;
I will burst out of your bubble
and break your glass ceilings;
I will scream at the top of
my lungs in a soundproof room
until you HEAR me.
I'm not meant to be judged
by my cover,
and neither are you.
We are meant to be read.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
A jaundiced adaptation
of fillers raucous threats
attempts obsolete mimicking
in a conspicuous pomposity
of disfigured reckonings
slipped us the tongue of your
ostentatious audacity
mid judgmental manifestations
Disengaged, as our eyes grew dim
' neath the masquerade
of multiplex duplicity
**who the ****** hell do you think you are?**
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
After My Little Black Dog Died of Melanoma.
After the Lumps on Her Small Brittle Body Slowly
Burned to a Pile of Ash in the Vet’s Office. After My Step-Father
Drove in His Ostentatious Truck to Pick Up Her Remains. After I Cried
in My Dorm Room and Tried Not to Wake My Roommate.
Realization that My Loss Does Not Make Me Different. There Are
Graveyards That Span For Miles and They Are Filled With More
Dead Bodies Than I Have Ever Seen. There Are Hundreds of
Thousands of Children in the Foster Care System That Have
Never Met Their Parents or Maybe They Did and it Just Didn’t Work Out.
Kids Who Might Have Lived With Their Terminally Ill Parent(s) For Years
Not Just Days. Kids Who Never Sat in the Opened Up Trunk of Their
Mother’s Black Nissan Pathfinder at the Drive-In Movies. Kids Who Lived Too Far From Their Too Old Grandparents or Who Lived Too Far From Their Too Dead Grandparents. Kids Who Were Never Told Not to Throw Snowballs Because There Might be Big Chunks of Ice in Them. Kids Who
Never Had a Childhood Dog to Cry Over. Kids Who
Don’t Like to Read Because They Were Never Read
Bedtime Stories When They Were Younger. Kids Whose
Mothers Never Called Them Tweetie or Pumpkin or Honey or ***
Kids That Were Not Told to Just Go to the Bathroom When
Their Tummies Hurt Instead of the Health Room. Kids Who Never
Listened to the Spice Girls’ Album Spice World on Cassette on the
Way to the Store. Kids Who Never Got a Peach Drink Out of a Vending Machine at the Pick’N’Save on 27th Street and Still Don’t Know
Exactly What 50¢ Peach Drink Their Mother Bought For Them.
There Are Thousands of Dogs Euthanized Each Day Because of
How Sick They Are or Because They Were at a Shelter For Far Too Long
or Because They Are a Pitbull or a Rottweiler or Some Other
Irrationally Feared and Disliked Dog Breed. We Didn’t Euthanize My
Stage-Four-Cancer-Stricken Dog or Even Get Her Treatment Beyond
Pain Medicine Because We Were Selfish. We Do a Lot of Things Because
We Are Selfish. We Waited Five Days to Pull the Plug on My Vegetable
Mother Because We Were Waiting For a Miracle That We Knew Would
Never Happen Because She Stopped Breathing the Moment the
Aneurysm Burst. My Sister is Getting Married in June and My
Grandfather is Going to Walk Her Down the Aisle in My Mother’s
Place. My Grandparents Had to Move In With My Sister After My
Grandmother Fell Down Too Many Times and Didn’t Take Her Health
Problems Serious Enough. There Are Repercussions For Thinking
You Are Safe When You Are Really Not.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
There was an orange caveman
Who made himself a fancy home.
It was as glitzy as he could make it
Using gold and fancy stones.
He had enough wealth to
Employ many starving slaves.
He fed them as seldom as he could
**** near from womb to grave.
When he took folks to the top
Of his ostentatious dwelling,
You could swear within minutes
You could hear his ego swelling.
He had the softest of couches
And lookouts over the land.
He did his level best to be sure
His caveman home was grand.
His slaves would prepare for him
The most lavish of repasts
And guests were encouraged
To dig in as long as it lasts.
But at end of day all must
Get the hell out of there.
He always had a new young wife
And he didn't like to share.
But, somewhere along the tour
He would keep some internal pledge
And take you up to the top
And point out a jutting ledge.
He would comment on it's proximity
To his bed for the middle of the night.
He explained it was his privy
Quite handy from this lofty height.
He said only whites could use it,
He was quite stubborn about that.
Because the good people in life
Must be careful where they sat.
But he laughed at those below
And made no attempt to hedge.
He enjoyed the idea of their fate
And what comes from the white privy ledge.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 1:03 AM UTC
Misguided — we were inseparable, but things
as they do, always with certainty like life itself,
change. These different directions on winding roads
upwards and even edged to cliffs —these dangers
in solemn yet ostentatious affirmations: the I don't
knows paired with the I am sure's. Which?
Between the I love you's and the rarity of these
honest intentions - these naked affections with tears diluted between breaths. Surely, it was true; true as
formations upon mouth tongue cheek in ***** patterns tracing up and down skin, hands to thigh
and then some — yet now.
© A. Leigh
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 11:23 PM UTC
..
….
…...
….....
…...........
…..................
…............
….....................
…............
….........................
….................
….....
barometric tendrils
psuedo-random and hybrid sets
growing like ivy in the clutches of time
such a
chocking
but actualising
grasp
..huh? what?
oh yes! sorry, sorry
come in, come in,
..you know,
I too, once, like how you are now,
was here too
so
very
very
present.
Aha! Oh yes!
Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision,
'hee hee hee'
aaaaaahhh..
I really was pitiful back then.
seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome
with
ahem
sorry.
..dank and musty cellars,
hashish and a can of beans.
(baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- )
had it all back then though, didn't we?
By which I mean we had nothing,
but the conviction
that obligation was something that actually meant something
rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme,
(with a slice of lemon)
confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men.
Derivative markets
oh, so very much so
so very
derivative
idiomatic
and *******
asinine.
..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it?
'detached and disposable.'
toothpicks
limbs
ideals
all that
goodness!
I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I?
Interpolate up some mediated conjecture.
But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they?
So our fiscal policy seems to think;
'I wager we shear up the youth
to buy shares in implementing youth wages.'
sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint,
“think of the children!” , they say?
Can't they see,
the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens??
we do it all for them the little snots.
laissez faire welfare
hedge or double down?
A shrubbery?
Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese?
(I just vomited in my mouth a little,
(how pastiche))
See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past;
the future's got me car sick.
and honestly
we're just brimming with history
(the scourge of post-modernity)
like a black moss spewed on the walls
Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever
tearing up our lovely
lovely
pacified
pay and display
psuedo
proto
posterity
….....
….................
….........................
…............
….....................
…............
…..................
…...........
….....
…...
….
..
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Every so often he
swings through town and makes
his way into my bed,
broad trunk filling the void this empty mattress
reaffirms on the nights I sleep alone,
which is most.
I appreciate the infrequency with which
he comes to visit,
my door kept ajar,
my heart kept comfortably closed,
as he strolls in in his designer
sneakers or boots,
the noncommittal conversation flowing freely
between us.
Once I recall he rolled over,
his hand sliding up my forearm,
wrapping himself around my
frame as I pulled out my phone
to show him a photo,
and he noticed his number wasn't saved,
guffawing at my nonexistent concern for his
permanence,
or lack thereof.
I like the way he laughs
and the rare moments when we exchange
something deeply
personal about ourselves,
complicated words and phrases transplanting
simplistic nonverbal communication.
He is handsome
without being too ****
he is smart
without being argumentative;
he is wealthy
without being ostentatious;
he is shy
without being withdrawn;
he is a lot of things,
my finely filed fingernails not even
beginning to scratch the
surface of his otherwise
intriguing layers,
having tied my own
hands
behind my back.
I need the way he doesn't
need me,
and him I.
Sometimes I need his body heat,
the gentle weight of a
man's arm hanging on
my curvy hip.
There are moments when I need
one of our witty but empty
texting conversations,
simple enough to read after
too much Bordeaux.
I need the something that
exists in the nothing
that he brings
me.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:00 PM UTC
Your presence is crepuscular.
In my beating heart,
I feel muscular
When the twinkling starts.
Your infinite laughs
Absorb me like gravity.
Each humorous blast
Engraves the moons cavity.
Your ostentatious sense
Explodes like a super nova
With every chance,
But you're only my Casanova.
Your spirited eccentricity
Forces all into orbit
Causing the weather to become dusty
Taking my love from Mars to Jupiter.
I admire you as the sun,
Honoured to shine with your light.
Even as far as Pluto,
The sun would be bright.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
Here I am, penning verses that paint vibrant images
Expressing my yearning through ostentatious displays
But do these efforts impinge upon -- even in the slightest --
The twisted fate we have been endowed?
I do not like to think this is all for naught
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
tv tucked-in to premature sleep,
t'is elementary that I
I awaken midnightish,
mission most unusual
sherlocked~unaccomplished,
to disembark from the day's
shellacking
glancing out the window,
many of the yellow lit windows
decorating (not littering) my cityscape,
precisely the color of the tastefully ostentatious
but breath taking
canary yellow diamond five carat ring
I will never buy you,
that shall be the ring, always,
She-Lacked
not because I can't
not because it is impossible tho most extra frivolous ridiculous ice cream scoop
upright~downright double silly,
buuuuuut
because
certain things in life off course,
and are truly better for just
the wanting
than
the having.
but not you,
of course.
Of course!
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
A poem is like a naked person,
That needs redemption and mercy,
And every expression to impress,
And comitted like a press.
Every expressions are specious,
And rhythms ostentatious,
Poets with their dulcet lips,
Giving vulnerability to your hips
Poets use one's Achilles' heels as
Leverage,
With many diction and language,
Their words can't be insipid,
So they play the cupid.
Poets seems complaisant,
Tantalizing those counts,
She said poet are killers,
But they claim to be healers.
Poets take their hyperborical expression
To the peak,
Making all your bones weak,
She said Poets are liars,
Oh! Poets are murderers.
Poets will make your soul tremulous,
With those words, sounding mellifluous,
Poets take you to the imaginary world,
Perhaps with just a word.
But Poets change their environment,
Releasing the truth from its confinement,
Chastising the revolts and destroyers
With mere pen and paper.
But she wouldn't agree,
Not to any degree,
She said Poets are liars,
Oh! Poets are murderers!
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
People come here and they eat,
satiating their tongue
to me, it seems like a never ending repeat
of an eluding trance song
I do not complain
for every time he wipes me clean
soaking my tears, healing my pain
leaving behind some ornamental scars
There are others also, like me
of different shapes and size
in apparent harmony with no common goal
we just pick up the chatter and claim to be wise.
The lamps glow, in the dark a vibrant rainbow
for an evening, light up my mundane life
the soft wind, makes the chime cling
ostentatious beauty, made for some heart to zing.
Even when the breeze dries, be happy, eat and drink
to connect to your heart I will always be here
the lonely candle will again light up,
and you shall find your much needed cheer.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
'So you want to be a writer' he says.
As a smirk quirks his lips.
'Actions speak louder than words son,
has no one ever said that to you?
It's not about words, it's about what you do.'
I'll admit in my mind a stereotype starts to form.
It seems like he's posing just standing there,
With his short cut blonde tipped hair and
Beard neatly trimmed.
Muscled like he spends way too much time in the gym.
There's gold round his neck like rejects from the Mr.T Collection
He keeps adjusting himself like he has got a semi-erection
A mans man it could be said
I wouldn't say that i'd just call him a ********
'I've got better things to do than read words and rhymes,
It's all just a waste of my time,
I've never even read a book.'
He says with with some pride
'I'm a man of action, why write?
I just say what I want to say,
Frankly I think writing and poetry is a bit gay!'
I feel the bile rise in my throat,
I close my eyes,
Count to ten,
Suppress the urge to stab him with my pen.
Then calmly I begin.
'Words hold so much power, words can inspire,
words can bring tears to your eyes
Or set your heart on fire.
You say actions speak louder than words, I disagree.
With actions you can be great,
If you go hell for leather.
But with just a few words you can live forever.
Words can paint pictures in the mind,
Give you strength that you couldn't find.
When you're down and losing the fight,
don't you just want to hear the words
'Everything is going to be alright.'
People find ways to express themselves to those they hold dear,
With ostentatious shows of affection.
There are millions of things that they can do,
but does any of it carry more weight than a sincere 'I Love you'?
Don't get me wrong words can be harsh:
Sticks and stones can break your bones but words can break hearts.
I love words and I love to write.
You can think i'm gay.
You can laugh and scoff.
If that's your opinion.
I've got two words for you.
**** off.
Dec 10, 2009
Dec 10, 2009 at 6:44 PM UTC
Fertile earth’s seductive sorcery
Like ephemeral effulgence’s effluent effusion
Can lead you to believe that it’s not a travesty
Like life’s visceral intuitive eternal is not lost in subtle evasive confusion
Life’s virile translucence reflects this glow
Like an aorist ensemble of interludes transposition
Can lead you to believe that you’re in the know
Like omnipresence presages omniscience’s ubiquity is existential exigency’s peroration’s exposition
Corporeally preternatural's metaphysical mystique
Like a mirador bartizan tableau panorama
Can inspire us to rise above its critique
Like spatiotemporal’s telemetry incarnate is creation’s vivid intrepid cyclorama
Spectral verve’s liaison’s consortium
Like eclectic synectic’s conclave’s fatidic
Can leave you lost in germane compendium
Like terminus thrall’s apriori inclination is transcendental accession’s endemic mnemonic
Monad’s transitional majestic splendor
Like residual harmonic vibration’s resilience
Can autonomously evoke and vicariously render
Like rubato’s actuator’s prospectus revealed is orchestration rendition’s intriguing brilliance
Eidetic preterit’s aesthetic amendments
Like protractive analyses’ dimensional delineations
Can lead to cogent salacious enticements
Like phantasmagoria’s fantasia fantastication’s magniloquence is sultry solace’s ostentatious ideation
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
I woke up at angles with you
---a parallelogram, opposite but equal,
my thoughts in constant rotating view
---a diagram, showing us where
our homes are laid to rest,
where streets became dead spiders
caught in their own webs.
If we are in transit via tunnel,
aqueduct, or escalator,
it might be cinema.
If we lose atlas in the worship of light,
it might be cinema.
But I can't find you here;
here, where they used to build ships
from sand and steam
and science fiction;
where they used to design
buildings so as to create
a dissonant and mournful
whistling sound when wind
blew through them
---ostentatious things;
dead people’s things.
Through walls and underneath concrete, dug so deeply
into the wide plains
and withered, gnarled tree roots
of an agonizer's conurbation,
is a space halfway to the zenith,
charting the prescribed power
of in-betweenness.
Never again will we draw meaning from
our proximity to one another.
Dec 24, 2023
Dec 24, 2023 at 2:13 PM UTC
say we rapacious
im down for
foot races
car chases
the lavish
and vivacious
or anything
bipartisan no cardigan
only arsenic
no old laces
just let me
say my graces
tie my shoelaces
and grab my
terracotta suitcases
these faces these places
where the make or break
takes us
it is spacious
ostentatious
spontaneous
it is more
or less
oh my gracious
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC