"parabola" poems
Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to ****
Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears
And look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being ****** I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.
The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches
8.5k
I need to change the circles I'm in
Because I fell into the trapezoid
Of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole
Making people believe I was a square
When I was really a rectangle
You just had to look at me from the right angles
The shape of things now
Is me looking at you from the wrong angles
You're pretty hot
90°
When you turn away from me your hotness doubles
180°
I think my Pompeii worm could survive the temperatures
But if you were to turn back around
No creature could survive
360°
The paradox of the parabola in my pants
Will never be solved
It's not your math problem
We're just two points on this rotating sphere
Where time is a straight line
And our's is a segment
I wish I understood the formula
So I could predict the outcome
But there are too many variables
Leaving my head spinning in circles
And myself running in circles
Meant to be avoided
Because within those circles are triangular trials
Where two points create a perfect line
And a third point ruins that
As points are added to the population
Lines only get larger
Like the welfare line
Mammoth shapes grow wider and more complex
Like the Pentagon
Lines become more easily crossed
Angles more easily tangled
And my freezing point becomes my boiling point
While I wish for a world more two-dimensional
Because once I consider depth
I realize I could never measure up to my ruler
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
Nang mahimasmasan bumulagta ulit
Ang sampal ng ipu-ipo ay kay lupit
Nilulupig ang ungas,walang patawad
ni mangmang hinahatak at saka ibabagsak
Ang diablo ay nasa parabola
nakatitig sa sentro ng pinangyarihan
mangyari na maligaw sa mga pahina
didiretso sa rurok ng bundok na mapanlinlang
Huling sigaw ng mga nilalang
matubos ang kanilang kasalanan
Iba'y kumakapit sa sungay
may buntot ng unggoy
at dila ng ahas
Talangguhit ng kahihinatnan sa katapusan ng siglo
Ang panambitan sa huling liriko
Di matapos-tapos na pag-iiling
Ang pagsimangot ay pansapin
Dahil sa panimdim, ang kwaderno'y pinuno
Makapal ang kaliskis ng sakob nito
Mga taludtod na nagpupumiglas
ang dinidikta ng saloobin
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 4:29 AM UTC
At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ...
When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding ...
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno ...
Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.
And you think:
"The swallows are flying so late!"
Swallows?
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop ...
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.
Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio ...
Changing guard.
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;
Wings like bits of umbrella.
Bats!
Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!
Not for me!
5.4k
I don't like quadratics
And it really doesn't matter
It won't help me in life to know how to factor
I don't like quadratics
A formula for disaster
negative B plus, minus
Doesn't matter
I don't like quadratics
And I don't like graphing
Rather spend my time with my friends all laughing
I don't like quadratics
And I don't like math
I hate this parabola
I hate this graph
I don't like quadratics
I really don't like quadratics
I hate 'em I hate 'em
I hate all of mathematics
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
Miss mother nature, goddess of earth
your grass masturbates my feet
and the clouds cushion my bedhead –
I am alive
as the plants breathe, I
can watch myself as they watch me.
I am mundane, plain, a concrete building
brutalist and manmade
but their real existence, live vines climb
and make me seem attractive…
Even as I want to be dead,
they kiss me as a husband would his
sleeping wife –
even loving when unaware, forgetting
acknowledgement
being beautiful all alone.
Miss mother nature, goddess of earth
I am alive
no longer manmade in your home.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
Being invokes Form.
Form invokes Matter.
Matter invokes Mind.
Mind invokes Motion.
Motion evokes Hallucination.
Hallucination evokes Provocation.
Provocation evokes Dis-ease.
Dis-ease evokes Reconciliation.
Conciliation banishes Dis-ease.
Ease banishes Provocation.
Discernment banishes Hallucination.
Rest banishes Motion.
Stillness dispels Thought.
Concentration dispels Matter.
Formlessness dispels Phenomena.
Being alone Is.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
the parabola
of your umbrella
as you offer it to the girl
becoming
increasingly
damp
in the rain
the ellipse
of your lips
against
hers
the circle
of your ring
around her
pretty little finger
the hyperbola
of your backs
arched away from
each other
as you sleep
soundly
in your bed
(if only she were me)
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
I love you baby,
From x approaching a limit of positive to negative infinity.
A range so large and domain so vast,
My love for you will always last.
The way my curve touches your tangent,
And how your secant meets me end to end.
When your line intersects my parabola,
We connect at one point of linear algebra.
You transform my altitude,
When my sinusoidal function allows you too.
You make my average rate of change,
Quicken and heighten in an instantaneous range.
For those days when my angle is in depression,
You tilt me up to an angle of elevation.
In an isosceles triangle,
You will always be my special angle.
The identities we cross,
Changing from tan to sin over cos.
Like sin²x with cos²x we are one,
It’s quite simple ***
Your imaginary roots maybe out of this world,
But my zeros and intercepts will keep it real.
It’s a complicated equation,
To solve for my fascination.
It’s the beginning of our journey,
I hope we never come across an inequality.
I love you endlessly like x approaching positive and negative infinity.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 11:38 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
They sit
like the curve of a parabola
facing in.
Though they do not see each other.
He sees only himself
amidst the gore and rot
which once passed as
a picnic lunch.
Pickled spines
and curried thought processes
to name but a few
of the delectables today.
In he reaches,
grabbing handfuls of cured flesh,
and not leaving any time
for chewing.
The yellow fog is syrup
and makes him
heavy-headed.
The trees are old men,
curved backs
and withered from living.
They only want a kind ear
to hear their untold stories of
life, love and death.
Glutton wants food.
he guzzles and guzzles
and never listens to those
who want him to listen.
So he eats,
they cry,
they die
and they are all alone together.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
as i Unshape my infinite parabola (it mutates)
into a speck of dust and oxygen
within a blinking moment
i embrace the curiosity that flows inside my soul.
into a speck of dust and oxygen
love seems to escape my heart and mind
i embrace the curiosity that flows inside my soul
and I feel better and worse at the same time
love seems to escape my heart and mind
every single time i look into your eyes (and emotion)
and i feel better and worse at the same time
i try to free myself from who i am
every single time i look into your eyes(and emotion)
i attempt to see a little bit of me inside of you
i try to free myself from who i am
so i can become more like you
i try to see a little bit of me inside of you
i’m locked inside a box and i cling on to hope
so i can become more like you
for you will free me from my world.
i’m locked inside a box and i cling on to hope
(feel that sense of affinity i embrace)
for you will free me from my world
(i’ll convince myself never to forget)
(feel that sense of affinity I embrace)
i may not be able to hold your heart
(i’ll convince myself never to forget)
nevertheless you’ll still be a Radiant angel.
i may not be able to hold your heart
i’m afraid of the outcome of disgust
nevertheless you’ll still be a Radiant angel
i’ll still be pounding on the doors of self-destruction
i’m afraid of the outcome of disgust
the Clocks will no longer tick
i’ll still be pounding on the doors of self-destruction
so i’ll lay it all down upon the cracked rocks
the Clocks will no longer tick
and for eternity the essence will be vanquished upon the land
so i’ll lay it down upon the cracked rocks
the thoughts of abandoning my trial
the thoughts of abandoning my trial
into a speck of dust and oxygen
and for eternity the essence will be vanquished upon the land
as i Unshape my infinite parabola (it mutates)
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
I look at the curves of your body
And start crookedly plotting
If you think that's so naughty
Then give me the straight answer
To cure my curious cancer
I want you to be forward with me
Instead of slowly torturing me
With lines that aren't crossed
And a fair amount of frost
While I await your zero degree angle
To match the direction my tears dangle
In some ways
Those who are gay
Have reached the month of May
In terms of being able to see the light of day
But nothing guarantees fulfillment
Not all the laws Capitol Hill sent
Or enough money to pay rent
I'm still stuck in the basement
I chase after a singular simple chance
But then you see the parabola in my pants
And flee in a serpentine motion of avoidance
To fill my crystalline ocean of annoyance
Maybe I shouldn't be so particular
Or maybe our lives are perpendicular
Because you're a vulture
That stands on what it's eating
So I live inside a culture
Where **** falls from the ceiling
There is straight answer coolant
Dripping from your curved bullet
That travels to me in a straight line
In order to perpetrate a great crime
Of stealing my innocence
Making me act in defense
Until I realize I'm not the best
And solemnly settle for less
At night I am crisscrossed
By dreams of a hip toss
That came from my blind spot
When a straight line made knots
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 3:55 AM UTC
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
the couches' cushions caving in.
The weight of passing hours
and minuettes alleviating thinking
in a miscellaneous metronome
ticking to bring time to a heaving chest.
Stay calm,
the pain of realignment will pass.
Burdensome they may be,
burgeoning wings will free you of...
Pressure collapsing this cage,
walls torn from studs,
leaving only this skeleton
surrounding us as we find delirium
the backbone of convulsing lungs watched,
earthquake mute laughter marring the faces
with jagged faults.
The cost of cracking,
we must accept the scarring permanent.
Breaks unplanned infirmities,
alone, our time line disrupted itself
and the heavens came,
tumbling down.
In silence,
we lay, arms barring
our escaping words.
Eyes overstep boundaries,
slipping through the gaps,
a second moment of
clarification fractures restraints
whilst beguiling brainstorms
sparked our interest.
Our tongues meet,
shyly.
rubies placed upon your breath
slipping against molded clay.
In sapphires
you and I hold nighttime
reflections of passion
contained in coal, waiting.
Ivory runs my length,
bending to ecstasy, breathing
shallow, asynchronous, failing
to find it's end in persistence.
In night
the danger dropped us, longing
that dusty light beaming down on
the show, Act 2 is
the comedy. Off.
Parallel parabola line diamond reflections,
allow for recall with brushed fingertips,
horse hair undertones realigning smiles,
abstract the paintings of today,
of yesterday, stealing away tomorrow
in a previous reiteration of our variant
indifference.
The wings of the demon opened
in symbolic solace, fell far
across this burning emotional
harbor, aflame
in angels' suicides.
We've fallen, taken knees to grace,
whispering eulogies the waves applaud.
Sands wash away to cupped stone
palms, caressing the troubled banks lost
in time. The blood washes away,
momentary marks, brown,
stained, it passes.
Demons foreshadow.
In their shade we are seen
falling into broken arms, sinew
stitched through hearts, still healing
strength gives way.
Our tongues meet
shyly,
this reunion a mistake,
now locked, staying stilled while
attempting apologetic phrasing.
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
blank walls and barren recounts
crashing in.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
Our love was like a negative parabola;
Where we thought we found happiness
We only found the vertex
And then it came crashi ng d o w n
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
**** you and your little intelligentsia
group therapy sessions
basing its roots in caveman cartesian
theoretic - i know you know that
the blank canvas are the ********
and that artists work on that -
because normally grey citizens are no
blank canvas but a subordination -
but still, **** you, why not concentrate
on the blank economics of a beggar
to exercise your little intelligentsia
get-together sessions?
there are less social securities in that
department of inquiry -
mental health and art... what's that?
you jealous of the caverns of the mind
crafting an escape pod to your
****** exercise of mechanisation -
**** on me, crosswords! su doku!
all matters of encryption!
endear your lack of creativity with
the synonymousness act of creativity
decoding encryption,
because you obviously can't encrypt
on a complete lack of encoding parameters (blanks).
you can't encrypt originality unless
you start with encrypting nothingness
with stars... and how often does that happen?
perhaps once... i care to make you
feel something akin to bombastic,
a football stadium size of appreciation lost -
skull kickabout with commentary:
to create the post-relativity warp
of quantity-quality, akin to space-time,
for indeed the answer to science's
space-time hyphenated couplet
is quantity-quality - and that's hardly a measurable
consideration, since there are too many particulars
involved, i.e. too many individuals, choices
and disparaging wills - too many particulars
in the hyphenated couplet quantity-quality,
since science is offering universal breadcrumbs
with its space-time rationalisation
for each and every for a share in populating
an insignificance, whether on a personal
scale or an impersonal / collective scale -
and both are indeed expressed,
the famous parasitical comparison found
in too many numbered essays by individuals -
but still humanism has a quantity-quality parabola,
while science has its space-time parabola,
and indeed both in dip, provide waves,
for example the former with Plato and Neoplatonism,
and for example the latter with
the revisionists of Einstein - the revisionist excavators
arguing precision to 100% proof of measurement
in exponential scaling of the mind theorising
a bus trip to Saturn like a bus-trip parallel-akin
to a 1 mile trip on the same vehicle in the earthly atmosphere.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
my arm is nothing more than an extension of my soul,
stretched parabola forming a straight line
towards heaven.
I stand on my soapbox with a sermon dangling
from my lips, this tired old street corner
this tired old man giving the world what it wants.
I am enlisted.
I am the bubble hidden deep
inside the bone.
I am the beekeeper creating a brand new colony,
stung by his own pride.
here, brother, listen:
walk with me while I tell you about the
accubation of life
and all of it's little lovers,
those tiny frail things so easily forgotten.
my tongue is nothing more than an extension of my mind,
soft, flattened, delightful
attracted to flavor.
a million spiders bred a million more,
and still their webs spread empty between the trees.
this is the way God works.
earthquakes,
tsunamis,
libraries engulfed in flames,
over-dosed artists,
a genius child sold into slavery.
we all become what we already are:
gentle creatures abacinated by society
fenced in and cornered by evil dreams.
we thrash in our sleep,
we wake violently,
we burst onto the scene like lions
from another planet,
hungry, oh so wild and hungry.
this is the way We work.
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 9:07 AM UTC
we are the vertex that opens up an asymmetrical parabola
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
I've approached the closest thing to my ending.
Surrounded by lustful comfort that you know.
Pull the sun to blind me.
wrap the sound to warm me.
Confuse the touch, the hold, the one you know.
Before you follow failure.
There is no balance here.
There is no light under the shadow's parabola.
Ponder before you clutch me.
Concede before you touch me.
I have inhaled the sign the sound you know.
This is too low, too distant.
This world will not allow it.
**** this math and this man.
**** the sound beneath the sand.
I'm not here upon this land.
Pine away, Pine away and understand.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
SHOWING SOME ENTERPRISE DURING
DOUBLE MATHS CLASS IN 1969
"Look, Kirk..!" I stab at the map
"Yes, the Barzan Wormhole is unstable but~
it's our only hope!"
Kirk's face blanches
Spock tries to show no emotion
"Highly illogical, yet. . ?"
Now, 70,000 light years away
"My God, Capt. Dempsey.."" Kirk smirks
"...it worked...it...worked. . !"
"Worked...of course it worked!"
I bluff and bluster
Spock's tight lipped smile
"Ahhh...Mr. Dempsey..."
Sir's voice gruffly Klingon
beaming me back up to Reality
"...seems to be in
another universe entirely..."
snickers as he reaches for the cane
"So..." Kirk smiles
"The square on the hypotenuse is equal to...
"Shut it Kirk..!" I snap "...just shut it!"
I watch the parabola of the cane
"Warp Factor 9...now...quick!"
I order Mr. Sulu
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
I'm going to fly away
I've strung two diamond kites to my back as wings
And I've tracked down the winding river-like patterns of the wind
I'm going to fly away
Because my kites will have no trouble
Picking up my hollow body, empty of life and experience and substance and
everything that defines what it means to be alive, up into the sky.
I'm going to glide on the air
and slowly make a parabola as I slide down the air current like
I'm on a water slide and then curve upwards
as if I'm a rocketeer testing out the power of my engine.
I'm going to glide on the air
because my feet are too tired of carrying the weight on my shoulders.
I want to feel the weightlessness that has encompassed my heart
every time it got its hopes up and every time it was broken.
The weightlessness that my empty lungs felt as
I lurched for oxygen in the smoky air
The weightlessness that my arms felt hugging
every one of imaginary friends that never felt real enough to believe in.
I want to feel the same physical weightlessness,
yet know it carries a much different meaning than all the others,
The one you feel when things are just where you want them to be,
The small floating instant in the transition from your upward velocity running out and
your momentum building as you are suddenly falling down.
The weightlessness of balance that I have only felt in the wrong ways.
I'm going to fly away
Because as a teenager I specialize in the concept of hating
every human being out there including myself.
and yet I'm dressed in all white save for the vibrant color of my kites
because I'd rather the world paint me into what it really is instead of me
painting the world into my skewed perceptions.
I'm going to fly away
and fly so far away and for so long
that my skin will turn the color of the sky
my kites will become a part of my body
my eyes will turn into every color humankind has failed to see
and I will feel alive,
my body full of the mass of life
that has replaced the weight on my shoulders
Which tried to hold me down to walk the concrete ground,
face the gray brick walls, and breathe the misused air
I'm going to fly away,
So I will learn to catch my breath the same way a landscape will take it away,
So I will hear the raw wavelengths of our earth,
So I will reach back to the trees reaching up to me from the ground
So I will feel the air currents take me along its route to nowhere in particular,
So I will live in fantastically unimaginable ways
So that when I land again,
I will be full of weight I don't mind carrying on my shoulders.
Yes,I'm going to fly away.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
I may have already saddened
-
a sameness in the parrots we care for
-
our suicides
fight
for position
-
we twin the parable
this one: she pushed the baby carriage and in her going made quite
the parabola / the baby bounced but was dead the baby
bobbed
-
habitually I displace:
the ether / a god’s trenchancy
-
the academic scholar of woe whose grave I would visit
uninterrupted
whose stone now is a lonely letter f
who would’ve partnered with me to abandon
my freighted usage
of lonely,
-
of heart, of amateur eulogist
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 11:52 AM UTC
They say core classes are suppose to teach us, things essential to everyday life,
This ****** education system needs to be stabbed with a knife,
Since when will I need to graph a parabola,
Math is need for finances and taxes blah, blah, blah.
Yet there is, oh so much that I need to learn,
If I got the chance every textbook I would burn,
Since when will I ever need to explain the history in the life of Shakespeare,
When will I ever need to write another ****** essay based on contrast and compare,
Since when will I ever need to explain the body parts of a frog,
The only thing that these core classes have done is they've made me into a helpless dog,
Since when was memorizing information defined as learning
I hope when my children get older it's the ****** education's death I will be mourning.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Detached. Re-rendered. Under-appreciated. Again.
She was a cold photograph, still life; subterfuge, undertow, parabola, meltdown.
Words. Nothing in common. But the picture is there.
I'm not sure where it's going.
Because we are lacking confidence.
This world has interested me for so long. Celebrities save citizens more than governments. Hilarious.
Ellen was a saint during Katrina. Bush was in a tree house, as our satirical representatives like to put it.
Peoples' actions are giving selfishness a bad name. We all forget that non-infringement is the first step towards equality. We must preserve such sacred rights.
But do we care? History is a short hour of stifled laughter and deals. Ironic.
Let's just lie down on the grass like we used to.
But how can we knowing what we know now?
What if we had tools to forget? To run away?
There they are in the sugar.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 12:06 PM UTC