"parabolic" poems
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…
May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:
JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
☻
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
There is an inherent discrepancy
'twixt the World in One's Mind
and the World that simply Is.
That is, however,
no intrinsically bad thing.
For, I find, that the world Within
needs the world Without,
though they inderdepend
and thus are not mutually exclusive.
There needs to be a discrepancy
for the pressures, as it were,
to have any room or excuse
to neutralize:
to move towards equilibrium;
however,
it is not linear,
nor is it parabolic:
this, I believe,
is where Calculus
becomes a valid allegory
for Life,
itself.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
A rotating wheel. Turning an axle. Grinding. Bolthead. Linear gearbox. Falling sky. Seven holy stakes. A docked ship. A portal to another world. A thin rope tied to a thick rope. A torn harness. Parabolic gearbox. Expanding universe. Time controlled by slipping cogwheels. Existence of God. Swimming with open water in all directions. Drowning. A prayer written in blood. A prayer written in time-devouring snakes with human eyes. A thread connecting all living human eyes. A kaleidoscope of holy stakes. Exponential gearbox. A sky of exploding stars. God disproving the existence of God. A wheel rotating in six dimensions. Forty gears and a ticking clock. A clock that ticks one second for every rotation of the planet. A clock that ticks forty times every time it ticks every second time. A bolthead of holy stakes tied to the existence of a docked ship to another world. A kaleidoscope of blood written in clocks. A time-devouring prayer connecting a sky of forty gears and open human eyes in all directions. Breathing gearbox. Breathing bolthead. Breathing ship. Breathing portal. Breathing snakes. Breathing God. Breathing blood. Breathing holy stakes. Breathing human eyes. Breathing time. Breathing prayer. Breathing sky. Breathing wheel.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 8:43 PM UTC
the alcoholic’s eyes are the least searching,
there’s a fixed point in them,
they’re not darting as you might expect
with the loss of the virgin’s carousel of
frenzy: up & down up & down.
the alcoholic’s eyes are fixed on a point
that makes the world less transfixed in its parabolic fluctuations,
that steady eye we’re all expected to have
when a hallucinogenic curtain is thrown over our eyes,
when the young moralise the old
and the old can’t teach the young -
hence the alcoholic’s eye steady darting into commotion
he least expected - otherwise known as the world.
‘but the lions are caged!’ the alcoholic bemoans,
'now i’ll have to put up with economic tourists panicky over eating their own
in the race of who gets richer first spawning a thousand gypsies
correcting political correctness to a hijab **** ****** at for conversation!'
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
I have a habit of packing a labyrinth in the back of my hippocampus,maintaining balance,like coasting through ocean,its outlandish.I'm on the tangent of ravenous madness complete with calculus captiousness capturing the effect of parabolic randomness.Long story short,I'm just dramatically imagining,I think my genius is overactive again.Calamitous analysis compatible with harzardous pathogens passing through passages to the abucus of antagonists,but its backwards,shhh.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
In the dark we marked tattoos of
disintegrating constellations
on our rib cages,
our fingernails filled with ink.
We were told they would last
forever on 19 year old skin
when carved on the night where
each fallen brother of Sun kissed
our mid-August goosebumps.
The weight of our bodies
cut into the grass.
We came back the next evening to
watch these human Grand Canyons
sink deeper to Earth's liquid center
underneath flashlight flickers of an
approaching thunderstorm,
each bolt echoing on the hearts
of Lake Michigan fish.
The trees fell inside our craters
as we walked backward to my car,
fearing for our lives, but
immobile from each reaching meteor.
Perseus fell through Earth's granite throat,
parabolic melting of night sky.
Collapsed Big Dipper and Ursa Major
illuminated our chests
over shadow of dying white pine.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
~
Ivory-teal ruffled his parochial feathers
His tongue dipped in languages
He wanted to learn the pronunciation of life
As he folded himself in Egyptian ink
He opened his mind against the dioramic surface of syllables
Painted in alloy; dripping from a papery canvas
He brushed his ivory creme feathers
in crimson and lavender hieroglyphics
Bleeding their pictorial valor inside a golden sepia lantern
"Go on, light the world with your suspense and mystery"
Ivory-teal twittered to himself
Wrapping the bijoux night around his little body
he disappeared into the stars
The teal birthmark on his forehead; glowing
He took the lantern in his gold beak
fluttering away into spirals of smoke
Toward Mythology mountain
Where a storm of butterflies
were winging their seasonal weather
Ivory-teal sometimes wished he could be a candle flame
Flickering in the darkest of moments
Letting the sunshine bleed through his beautiful feathers and soft skin
But his destiny was a bit different
He was folded in cultural prophetic proverbs and
sewed neatly in parabolic traditions
Where nationality is mixed into colorful pixels inside skin
Accents are curved in throats and lilted on the edge of tongues
Ivory-teal was carved in diamond flex dreams
In a temple of mythical patterns
Imprinted in mercury cocoons laminated with knowledge
The Angel Apostles printed him in their book of Dreamtales
Where he became a bilingual silhouette
He was birthed right here on this mountain
As he balanced himself on thoughts
He had learned to love himself to this point of his life
He wanted to be the change he wanted in the world
He gently lifted the little lantern
It rose up toward the sun and exploded into rainbow fireworks
The contexts that were inside split sideways
Tilting and pressing themselves into the air particles
If birds could smile then that would've been Ivory-teal
As he laughed quietly
"Now breathe in earthlings, breath in the wonders and knowledge of life"
He then spread his gorgeous ivory creme wings
tattooed with all the languages of the world and life itself
He twirled into the sunset and bled himself in a cloud
A mountaineer had been watching and wondered to himself
As he unknowingly breathed in the context from Ivory-teal's lantern
"If flying is a language I would love to learn and speak it with my wings"
But shouldn't he know that language already
For it is the language of freedom
Ivory-teal is one of many symbolic accents
Of that beautiful language
~
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
The highs and lows of living life
Occur in sweeping loops
The ups and downs of everything
Are determined by the groups
Of numbers as they glide
Across a digital display,
In rendering the parabolas
Of this game of life we play.
The winning runs of business
A sweet windfall of cash
Temptation to extend that deal
Beyond …is perhaps rash;
It may just tip the balance
Commence the start of the decline
And your parabolic plunge
Will see you quailing to divine.
How you claw your way to solvency
You sweat to make it right,
How you battle tax malignancy
To surmount official might.
The administrative penchants
Of administrative types
Who insist on crossing every “T”
And switching “OUT” the lights.
Having made it, you sit astride the top
And bask in shining light.
You cast off the cloak of caution,
Claim success as yours by right.
But by morning there’s a thunderstorm
A headache and a snag,
By lunch evicted on the street
With your belongings in a bag.
The ups and downs of life my friend
Are a parabolic coast
One day you’re sitting pretty
The next day you are toast.
The only consolation
Of this constant change of state
Is the reconstructive challenge
In re-determining your fate.
So gird yourself my beauty
Hitch your belt another notch
And launch yourself at living
Before you seek that midnight watch.
For tomorrow is a mystery
The possibilities are vast
And paradoxically speaking
The very best is usually last.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
20th July 2008
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 4:55 PM UTC
a family album
perhaps especially
or happenstance discovery..
breathless vistas
seashore places
evening laughter gatherings
stark recognitions not
mistaken..
precision abiding..
and then
sudden emergences from
nowhere..
habitual viewing torn
prompting new explorations
awakening patterns unseen..
iceberg revelations
now realizing our settling
assumptions
deceptions and unexpected
origins..
other slices
parabolic mysteries
left and right..
perfect picture now..?
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
Coagulation in the limbic system
The pineal gland commence emission
Insemination within the vision
Clouded by foreign dubbed derision
Fray the edges, fringe incision
Behold the schism, parabolic business
Subtitles for the learning minions
And it is booming like v twin pistons
Streamline slithering tunnel vision
Between the rock and hard resistance
Living the lie, we're deathly hidden
Not just fire but the end decision
Resulting is the pouring human
A sudden break elastic intrusion
The hour spawned upon confusion
Forever running through illusion
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
Wasting words on half thought speeches,
and steps on roads we walked together.
I waste my time in empty parables,
in parabolic signatures that trace my life from one loop to the next.
Me, the black dot in a line of ink drops from the tip of a pen in God's hands.
Gone are seven dirham taxi rides in Broken Arabic.
Wasting furniture on empty apartments,
and music on crowded subway trains.
I waste my time in black-and-white fantasies,
in bucolic boulevards that draw my life out like lines on a map.
Me, the modern Mediterranean man on the Eastern end of Cabbagetown.
Gone are the nights of grape-mint sheesha on quarters of round tables.
Wasting memories on that "American Dad" episode, and memories again on events transpiring when the room went dark.
I waste my time on lofty balconies,
on silent poetry that recites my life from one page to the next.
Me, the unfinished Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 10:27 AM UTC
When my muse eludes,
I pick up my Guitar;
and when that fails,
I seek the (albeit sometimes symbolic) Pen.
When that as well fails to impress the Divine within me,
I regress to something much, much closer to home;
I Meditate.
Neither speaking to nor being spoken to by the Divine;
Asking not and seeking no Answers;
trying to be content with this.
Just Meditate.
Do not stare it in the Eyes
for it is the Void itself;
the Mystery itself;
Meditate.
Look into the Pond in which you're standing
and try standing still enough long enough
to let the ripples and sediment settle;
to be able to see thy Reflection;
Such is Mind:
Meditate.
Realize that you are a Fractal of Manifestation;
a pattern begot of patterns upon patterns upon patters
throughout time upon time upon time;
symmetrical in a parabolic sense, perhaps even circular;
Birth, life, death, (etc.?).
--
Universe:
The all-encompassing Chord:
A
Fractal
Manifest.
begot of the One;
relatively horizonless,
each point sees itself as Center;
when really there is no Center,
except the Center
relative
in time;
Now.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
Dedicated to Mike Evans & Wendell Griffin…for their great approach to the King of sports, Golf.
Loosen up, feeling good,
Back swing nice and smooth
Power stroke an easy glide
A solid thwack to move
That golf ball into orbit,
Disappearing into air,
Diminishing like angel dust
On a trajectory so fair.
Looking good, nice and straight
In parabolic curve
At apex point it hesitates,
No breezes cause a swerve
Plummeting to emerald grass
The ball bounces on the green
To travel in a perfect arc,
The best I’ve ever seen,
It teeters at the cup lip
To roll around the rim
And by the grace of God,
That golf ball vanishes within!
The day at once looks perfect
The morning light pristine,
The singing birds in trees
Throw brilliant shadows to the green.
I peer into the cup
To see my sweetest dimpled ball,
That darling Dunlop eight
Henceforth shall grace my trophy wall.
My name will feature on the cup
Atop the clubhouse shelf
And the bar room shout for all the boys
Should put a large dent in my wealth.
But the wonder, the wonder,
The spangled wonder of it all
Will have me grinning foolishly
Whenever I recall,
That magnificent stroke
Towards that iridescent green
When I scored a hole in one
And drank a toast to Golf and Queen.
Marshalg
@ the Bach
Mangere Bridge
12th January 2009
Jan 7, 2010
Jan 7, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
I live alone
in a room
my only friend
a rock plant.
*
A vase made of sighs,
converts **** non-audible AIs
to an unknown hymn,
replaces a half broken arm.
or was that a dream
during a harvest time?
or was that a gift
from a dear one?
*
I live alone
beside a window under skies
in a vase
made of colorful spots
my only friend
a girl
meditates in the room somewhere.
*
She, my sole flower
is a shape of a pink heart.
Her subtle transparent edge
glows my petal of gleam,
filters a beam,
and makes a rainbow kite.
*
My leaves, center her single dream,
carry a code of a parabolic green.
*
At dawn, she sings a love song,
invites all the blues of skies.
At dusk, she migrates them towards tones of nights.
A dot sinks within the brightests of stars
and finally
into my heart of hearts.
*
She collects then pure droplets
from a precipitating river - crossing unknown realms
in which of each
every season
a silver moon blossoms
to reflect a blue-green star,
she ultimately waits for:
‘That one!’ she shouts
deepening her pinks,
beating rapidly,
shaking my photosynthetic organs
‘There... we come from!
from the dancing, shapeshifter one!’
She, my only friend is a dreamer for none.
A dream of dreams about an unknown realm.
A girl with big words,
‘Someday’ she says ‘Someday,
when we be one as a timeless time but
I hold a key of Now from you for now
as much as I am of you,
Love will be a technology then for all - as is
then we be of love and One’.
‘but for now’ I say ‘for now’
‘at least, be my only one’
and I dream…
dream about a shape of the moment of that very someday
when she finally understands
and ‘yes that blessed someday’ I say,
and as usual nod and tune my stem.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
Pursuing yet another parabolic
Crawl across the clear, blue, summer sky
The sun started its journey at the horizon.
Radiating— Forcing its warm, orange, light
Through venetian blinds; the glowing celestial body
Painted her naked, flawless, skin
With stripes of contrasting light as she slept.
He watched her quietly as the shadows
Manifesting between each strip of light, inched
Across her skin in unison with the suns trajectory.
Ever so slightly opening her sleep-crusted eyes
She looked up at him, yawed gently, smiled and
Rolled over to position her body against his.
Her narrow, freckled face, rested easily
In the crevice between his arm and chest.
Letting out one more yawn, her emerald, green,
Eyes fell back behind their lashed curtains of flesh;
Dozing off into the next satisfying slumber.
The ceiling fan above clicked and waved erratically
But offered no relief from the hot, humid air.
Perspiring slightly, her skin remnant of morning dew.
In those last few minutes of direct, morning, light
Right before the sun left the scope of their window
He couldn't help but think that this was it.
This was love, and he was trapped.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
In a parabolic sort of way,
many otherwise seemingly "opposite" elements
become elegantly symmetrical;
funny how that works
Balance is key;
attain both sides
of the symmetry
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
It deceives the skin
like rain drops crawling
up the windshield.
False flags begin
to handshake the wind.
Low pressure boils the blood
of stymied nerves
moving in parabolic curves.
Follow the lines
of concentric circles
and drive with body and mind
intertwined.
Tune out the fear
so it cant hear you here
float on with the ripples.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
Because maybe I don't get enough sleep
and spent too long putting ships in bottles that line the office floor
the room is a single headache
someone is saying something
at a hardwood table this was commissioned
get edgy get angsty
because the typical teenage crisis is such a classic appeal--
I want to be atypical please god just atypical
without kicking down the doors of a cardboard institution
and being labeled something worse
Starched collared shirts and five point essays
parabolic paranoia burning through my throat
my voice cracks mid-presentation
ten points off
oh the shame
Because ain't this real life
(you'll use this information later)
you're entire future rests on this testexampapermotherfuckingpowerpoint
get to college get a job get happy--
dropout
maybe I'll push drugs instead
--get happy get happy--
relief packages sold behind brick buildings to younger versions
the 2.0s
it's hell isn't it, kid?
good luck
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 8:01 AM UTC
This is not the sound of an ambulance sending its omens calling.
This is not my life- shattering crucible with its hot fluid burden.
This is not my stop and you won't tell me where to get off.
This is not a hopeful situation, my scared stupid found dumb looks
and cast-iron idols,
my insecure voodoo dolls clutching at their ******* buried headfirst in sand.
These are not mine.
This is not a math problem; it will always add to an improper sum.
This is not a miracle. This is not a ghost.
This is not a reflection in parabolic distortion
this chatter has nothing to do with thought.
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Count how many things are blue.
How many balloons are in the room?
Light a candle and still the flame.
Clear the mind of intrusive thought.
Strike the bell and listen for the moment
between sound and silence.
Why is the dark sky at night black?
What is the nature of blue?
Finally. A question with an answer.
When, amidst the immensity of all things, she
exhales; the sound is tremendous.
It is a sound that has an end.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
***we are clothed
in our assumptions
the proverbial wool
over our eyes..
it's a matrix
holding us captive..
original lofty insights
in science religion
solidify in time
standards and creeds
then prevail..
our habits of life
in comfort enchains..
the torus movement
offers this solace:
all these assumptions
make wonderful fuel
for an upward
parabolic escape...!***
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
Icicles dribble down the tip
of my nose as frost fogs
the humid corridors of my mind.
Tundras yawn before me
and sea-foam green ribbons
helically orbit one another.
Streaks of yellow roll between
the spiraling bows in the sky.
Stars twinkle slowly, just beyond.
An icy howl jars the halcyon
serenity as a harbinger of
hardships and blizzards.
But I am not of this.
I carry a hearth in my chest
and open my arms to embrace.
Ah, and now she steps down
from the gathering clouds;
her gown rippling as it unfurls.
Her aurichalcite eyes echo unsung
songs until I can't bare the separation.
My unstrung heart beats on, begging
for another verse from her slightly parted
-- but how much they open! --
lips lying, parabolic, atop her chin.
She meets my pleas succinctly:
her out-stretched hand offered
in tribute to another kindred soul.
My mind is fixated, not a thought
intrudes on my contemplation
of her exotic inebriation.
Does she know what she's done?
How every movement makes
me stutter, slightly, shuddering
(unavoidably)? How could she
understand this intoxication
which I don't even hope to know?
I suppose that's all man can hope for:
a single day, maybe not more than an hour,
where "love" can even be considered.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
Bloom had a gravid heart last night
She could not relate but meditate with leaves up
Bloom received a thicket from the moon
While she froze in a posture of
‘a gift to be presented to ... but for whom?'
Fitted well in length on both of her parabolic curves
as if a newborn glume
a galaxy made of a wood flower
a heap which once a cycle blossomed
same color as the fragrance of a lover's desire
in a deepest clearing at the heart of hearts
at a holy spot where a ray shone
Just one night falling on one cycle
to awaken a moonflower
She sings the magic wood's tune
to matchmake destined lovers
living in such mirrored cycles
....
The golden bunch which she then gently grasped
until a fist would became its skin and pulsate
in mindful rhythm
reintegrating the nature of nodes within
reanimating the beat from and through the leaves
delivering health to All its unitless dimensions
The nourisher and the rejuvenated
the heart of joy
a flow
to find its way this way
along the equifying particles
on one smiling body
she dreamt of
....
Next morning I got up early
seeing the municipal cars aside
with stacks of healthy roots inside
all to be planted in a day
to grow trees
in front of her little house
and yes she could relate this time
first with bewildered eyes
then with bewildered mind
then with a breathing belly
then with a full heart
she smiled
....
She was a mystery studying facts only
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
of Euclid's Parallel Postulate
I feel like a line to never touch
in geometric space veering off
into infinite angles,
always congruent
I need to enjoy the parabolic
spherical
stand in one spot
and the focus of the parabola
will become
an axis of symmetry
if I hold still
long
enough
to the curves.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
Low are the crickets of Delphi
With their chirping rays of sunset,
Like Phaethon to photon destructs
Into the fiery ruts of chariot wheels,
Or two eagles flying opposed on stringed vicissitudes,
A bird-yarning of sky from the omphalos stone,
The fulcrum of sung misery, a fishing net thrown,
As the half-bird and half-ion in siren’s undertones
Lure in subatomic orbs of ghostly parabolic swerve,
Into this blued Corinthian evening, self-vibrato,
Rocking like an empty boat from the dock rope,
Or an empty heart, unmoved by its own beating.
May 11, 2025
May 11, 2025 at 10:06 PM UTC