"paradises" poems
Around the table,
Literacy discussion turned elitist...
Bemoaning some poor Johnny,
Son of a plumber who does not read
Beyond the practical need,
And has no desire to.
I stopped to check my sense of what I had just heard...
Was transported to a prairie farm;
Thought of my Father, then in his eighties
Who felt no need and no sense of loss
For not having read Shakespeare nor Kant
For missing Milton's Paradises and Hemingway,
For by-passing Black Elk Speaks and C.S. Lewis.
Every morning, he read his Bible;
Some nights he read the mail's
Motley collection of literature:
Ads and politicians and fanatics,
Demanding money and his time,
But mostly money.
"I don't have time to read!"
He'd shout when I suggested a novel.
What literature he had was in his head,
Poems memorized when he was a boy
In a two room school, or
His own lines, written as a young man,
Describing work and friends
Long distant now, but still alive
In memory.
Dad taught me how to read
In different literacies and different texts:
Nuances of sky to read the weather -
What chill or storm or drought was on its way
("Storm's coming, boys! Let's get that hay!");
Cows and calves and bulls,
(Which one was sick or well, dry or bred);
Ways to diagnose mechanical ailments
("Start with the easiest options first");
Metals, to know which welding rod applied
("Aluminum sags, and cast iron cracks");
Grain, rolled crisp between hard hands,
(a test of ripeness);
Cement, to blend the perfect mix,
("Clean gravel/sand, no dirt, not too much water!);
Conservation,
("Always keep some grain on hand" &
"Keep your fuel above half-tank").
So many literacies...
Dad, the Master Reader of them all...
No wonder he'd no time for books.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 9:26 PM UTC
_las mujeres nacen de la tierra en la gloria de la más alta_
dys·to·pi·an/disˈtōpēən/adjective: dystopian:
relating to or denoting an imagined place
or state in which everything is unpleasant or bad,
typically a totalitarian or environmentally degraded one;
_"the dystopian future of a society bereft of reason"_
noun: dystopian; plural noun: dystopians:
a person who advocates or describes
an imagined place or state in which
everything is unpleasant or bad;
"a lot of things those dystopians feared did not come true"
[A dystopia from the Greek δυσ- "bad" & τόπος "place";
alternatively, _cacotopia, kakotopia_],
or simply anti-utopia; a community or society
that is undesirable or frightening; It is translated
as "not-good place" & is an antonym of utopia,
a term coined by Sir Thomas More
par·a·dise/ˈperəˌdīs/noun
noun: paradise; plural noun: paradises
in some religions; heaven as the ultimate abode of the just,
heaven, the kingdom of heaven, the heavenly kingdom,
Elysium, the Elysian Fields, Valhalla, Avalon;
"the souls in paradise"
the abode of Adam and Eve before the Fall
in the biblical account of Creation;
the Garden of Eden/noun: Paradise, Eden
"Adam and Eve's expulsion from Paradise"
an ideal or idyllic place or State;
"the surrounding countryside is a streetwalker's paradise"
Utopia, Shangri-La, heaven, idyll, nirvana;
"a tropical paradise"
bliss, heaven, ecstasy, delight, joy,
happiness, nirvana, heaven on earth
_a ********** who seeks customers on the street_
"this is sheer paradise!"
Middle English: from Old French paradis,
via ecclesiastical Latin from Greek paradeisos
‘enclosed royal park,’ from Avestan pairidaēza ‘enclosure, park.’
_Superficies terræ puella_
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
Try to find me
And you'll never find
Because I am nowhere
There's nowhere to be
On the outside world
Nowhere,
For I only traveled within
It’s up to you to get lost
Into the rhythm and vibe
Of my eyes, only then
You can find my paradises
Within these kingdom of my worlds
Feb 2, 2023
Feb 2, 2023 at 4:32 AM UTC
Around the table, literacy discussion
Turns elitist...
Bemoaning some poor Johnny,
Son of a plumber who does not read
Beyond the practical need,
And has no desire to.
I stop to check my sense of what I have just heard...
Am transported back to a prairie farm
And think of my Father, now in his eighties
Who still feels no need and no sense of loss
For not having read Shakespeare or Kant
For missing Milton's Paradises and Hemingway,
For by-passing Black Elk Speaks and C.S. Lewis.
Every morning, he reads his Bible;
Some nights he reads the mail's
Motley collection of literature:
Ads and politicians and fanatics,
Demanding money and his time,
But mostly money.
"I don't have time to read!"
He shouts, when I suggest a novel.
What literature he has is in his head,
Poems memorized when he was a boy
In a two room school, or
His own lines, written as a young man,
Describing work and friends
Long distant now, but still alive
In memory.
Dad taught me how to read
In different literacies and different texts:
Nuances of sky to read the weather -
What chill or storm or drought was on its way;
Cows and calves and bulls -
Which one was sick or well, dry or bred;
Equipment to diagnose mechanical ailments;
Metals to know which welding rod applied;
Grain, rolled crisp between his hands, a test of ripeness...
Cement to find the perfect mix,
So many literacies...
Dad, the Master Reader of them all...
No wonder he'd no time for books.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
the promise that her tenderness has no fences
made her linger on my mind
like a rough bottle of fine wine
and as the evening rolled back daylights clutter of thoughts in my head
that smile she flashed me came back to kiss my heart
it came with such delight sparking in her sweet eyes
that i just felt myself drowning in the moment with such wanton joys
made me illustrious by her soft-spoken side
made me happy to be alive...
once the sullen girl in baggy sweat pants and pink slippers
dragging a bag full of noisesome beatnik romances
she has grown to love freedoms road
cast aside such tin-plated gods and rough-house boys
that a pretty boy isn't a man if he wont make a stand
found herself holding a wishing well coin
and a map showing paradises shores
and came down to find me again....
sitting in a coffee house full of lost voices
full of magazine honeys chilling before the big break finds em
listening to the sounds of heartbreak in glasses chatter
and waiting for a road that made sense to me
when she walked back into my life
like a rough bottle of fine wine
like a candlelight evening with true loves joys
i will be here forever know that now
florida moon-surfing
holding her in my arms
breathing the magic that is her
exploring her romances
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
the words that once flowed off my tongue have all been dried,
leaving nothing but a cracked and barren wasteland,
desert termites squeeze themselves into places they’re not wanted,
the phantom figure of what was once alive cries for water in a broken voice that will never be heard,
even by the most intent of listeners.
the fruits of my labor are met with mud on my clothes and spit in my face.
at the night’s fall i bask in the eternal cold,
the air i abuse is extracted from my lungs with sleight of hand
and an unnervingly charming smile,
a cherry tree beckons me forward as it waves in the midnight wind,
the crickets fall silent and i am momentarily assuaged,
bathed in the yellow light of the moon.
time ebbs and time flows, bringing with her the judge, jury, and executioner.
like Saint Bartholomew, i am strewn up to be flayed,
from my pocket falls a needle and thread, a note from someone long ago left behind,
and a rotting apple core.
they belong to the Earth now,
and soon so will my precariously perched form,
my very essence pooling around the tree and staining the leaves pink.
at my decaying touch, maggots spawn.
as if trained, they surround my body,
a cocoon in which i metamorphosize into who i’ve always been.
in my chest, the vultures will nest,
feeling safer than i ever could have,
nothing left of the girl who once wove tales of grandeur and painted paradises in her mind,
but a torn canvas and an empty shell waiting for its puppeteer.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 11:10 PM UTC
first,
a raccoon wrapped within its own intestine.
the asphalt is its grave; i swerve to miss it.
we shared the same air, maybe even a
common ancestor.
someone moved too fast to care.
its the ones with
fast cars and slow minds
pretty faces and ugly intent
artificial kindness but genuine hate
i'm not your friend
just a similar sense of self
it is
fat priests playing golf
lottery ticket paradises
restaurants
embellished mechanized slaughter
fake laughter and even faker love
shopping mall environmentalists
lexus-driving christians
paychecks, TV, lawn mowing sundays
drink yourself to death
please.
the least among us in control
deprived of the mind
the stench of their egos
and their hypocrisy
the gasoline, the cash, and the forced smiles
as i write people die
children die
i'm like many
the fool who knows
but does nothing
the one who doesn't know
that's the good person
the moral person.
second,
a rant, a ****** off rage
the days are stale, self-actualize, the Earth remains the same
dry and motionless
middle-class frustration, planetary confusion,
the ***** of the Earth,
capsized like dying branches
in a wal-mart state of mind,
stupid slobs, rodent minded social egoists
over-organized, clean freak object fetishists
the evolutionary dollar sign
they bay at the moon, it's made of cheesecake
phase transitioning,
you blood clot, Earthly blood clot,
you don't know art
now there's ancient blood on my hands
smokeless, plantless, Earthless blood
detached from Gaian consciousness
stain on the mind
confused, clogged pathways,
clogged with
self-righteous mind flood
piles of ***** tissue,
waning and waxing
force feed me your ******** please
because i have no idea how to answer
in this cultural blood bath
it is the
end of time
the end of mind.
:aaphi
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Simple questions deserve simple answers.
For that is the way life runs,
The simpleness of a subject is complemented by something much more simpler.
So why is it,
When this question surfaces in the minds of every writer,
There is nothing simple to it.
The reason for writing is as simple as it can be.
It is like painting on a canvas board,
For every stroke of the paintbrush is a stroke of words
Painting vivid images in the minds of every boy and girl.
We as writers are giving life to the lifeless lines of paper.
For even when it's blank,
There is still an image painted through words.
The greatest invention mankind could ever think of is words.
For without them,
Nothing could ever exist.
Without the simpleness of screaming out how blue the sky is
Or how soft those clouds look,
Or even how beautiful a starry night sky can be,
How can we
Ever appreciate the beauty writers create on canvas boards.
For every written word on a blank sheet of paper,
Is a stroke of paint,
Creating magnificence inside a dull mind
My good sir,
When asking a writer their reason for writing should be as simple as this
But
If its too complex for your mind to comprehend,
Then, let me simplify it further.
When you ask an artist their reason for creating art,
You are merely asking their reason for existing
Asking why they are deluding themselves on such strange fantasies
But you have yet to realize the true nature of us artists
We find many ways to escape harsh realities
Creating picture perfect paradises
Or even amplifying how gruesome society can be.
The reason for writing should be as simple as this.
For the simpleness of a subject should be complemented with something much more simpler.
But if it's too complex for you,
The reason why writers write is as simple as this,
Writers are artists and therefore write to create art,
Like taking a single paintbrush and painting on a canvas board
We as writers take a single pencil and write on blank sheets of paper.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:12 AM UTC
The Tree Nymph chants with grace,
Mesmerizing men by plenty, soon lost, displaced,
Her voice, charming songs of paradises and victories true;
Sounds like colors, various, like a thousand rainbows hues,
But deceptive songs heard only men whose hearts are empty,
And whose souls are petty, despite they toiled plenty.
For these men who seek women and The Nymph also seeks them:
Evil men full of blackness, foul and dread,
Who foolishly travel to the source of the enchantment,
Only to find themselves slain by this female *******
No heart broken if nonexistant,
Persistent ignorance formed by constant negligence
Yet before dying comes a sweet caress
For slain are these foolish men, Nature is blessed!
From Her body only one guarantee,
Without sympathy, from the enemy
From her blood pure: Holy Vessels,
But only after a pain; unbearable
Her Body sometimes Tree, Her blood always a Holy Sap
Her wisdom an elixir which none can grasp,
She is wet and her branches grow children who will soon run with the wind
Not from the rain, but from the ***** of men who have heard her sing.
Forever shrouded, mysteriously clouded intent
Dreaming of men who wept, with whom they slept, only to met their death
However it is noted, The Tree Nymph sings true and pure,
For men who are evil, the only cure
A purge for those who sing as they hurt and curse
At Women: The Ocean of eternal birth.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
When the “100” departed,
Four turned ‘round,
To carry on and away
From that bloodied dusk,
Sojourn and sought last Saturday.
It was a solemn evening, for even I,
Upon the scent of spent beer,
Soiled socks and job well done,
Albeit, half-assed, but good for me,
Since money’s the modern paradigm.
Beholden gallant, I returned to rebellion,
This satiated dish tantalizing the four,
And only four – painted traitors,
An opposition to the flock christened
“Listen” and assumed safer skies.
Souls atop intrepid –
The “4” would learn alone,
So whispered, “insurrection,”
Savoring a certain comfort in solitude,
A stiff chin come rules abundant others,
And freedoms never realized.
I’m sure they’ll fly, they’ll mate,
I’m sure they’ll die and fly once more
Whilst I smirk, smoke
And take note of the next fool
To forget the heavens and allowed,
Became the heathen’s promised.
It’s an epiphany’s echo as
The fall’s a salvation in and of itself
And the four’d that opted flounder,
Beyond an already withered earth,
Bet on fortunes unknown,
When they, themselves, were gems,
And certain paradises, lay in wait.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
As empty as you feel when your headphones are on
and no music is playing.
As full as a heart can be,
full enough to hear its beating like the noice a traffic light makes,
while you are waiting for it to switch from red to green.
As full as lungs filled with air but still...
you feel like you are not able to breathe.
Longing to pour it all out,
to shout it out loud until your throat hurts
like it does after singing that one song at a karaoke bar.
But your lips remain sealed
and words stuck between thoughts.
Thoughts so loud,
you can't even remember the sound of your voice anymore.
As hopeless as the thick air on that 1st January morining
when you walk down the empty streets,
knowing this isn't a new beginning.
As quiet as the big city life seems
when you are lying ****** on the ground
with the right people around.
As painful as not being able to tell
if you are made out of atoms
or just a concept.
As surreal as feeling alive.
I could be more like milk and honey,
but I'm somewhere between nothing and affection
just like water and oil.
Everything i reach out for,
everything i touch,
becomes water and oil.
Mixed up,
but yet still separate.
Never one.
Not even when you get as close,
as two people can be in this world.
When you are burning holes on each-others
skins and souls.
As messy as hair after world-crashing ***
As complicated as the ability to understand that emotions
are artificial paradises.
As strong as your longing to puke your brain out.
As hard as not being able to...
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
incogitable is the question
you've asked yourself
since you could form
thoughts dense enough to grasp
quandaries these daily citizens
are encouraged
"not to be contemplated"
unthinkably aware of your surroundings
that you tend to notice cracks
in the side-stomped concrete
three-point-five seconds before
my ankle ever twists
and yet, your eyebrows carved canyons
in sweaty, porous sediment
caked onto the blood-fed silkscreen
stretched below your hair
you didn't believe me when i told you
cameras will litter the city streets
innumerable greater than the lampposts
illuminating your view of my sprained ankle
(you missed that one, by the way)
you honestly believed that everyone
thinks about everyone else
because that's what you do
but boy, I gotta tell ya,
you are not like anyone else
you're the high-flyin pilot
star visible to the naked eye
caught behind the crescent of the moon
yet still shining through
and some may even come close enough
to brush heat waves you emanate from that hot heart
unfortunately, your perennial denizens
rely on waxen wings
crashing anxiously homeward
to moss-laden paradises
they make up
twisting neural networks into bundles
here i recline
pierced through the retina
held fast iron-gripped heart
legs tight and fingers licked
incogitably cognizant
of each
and every
answer
|| Restricted Access Memory ||
will not permit to ponder
ponder for longer than
a second anyway
but a second is all you
need to receive
seventeen-thousand-four-hundred-and-forty-two
percent of your daily value
of vitamin E
(that stands for Enlightenment, people)
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
Jan. 1st,
New Years drowns
its yesterdays with alcohol
and needle ships to
summer paradises made of ice
But in the morning,
when the frost retreats
into the suburban sidewalks-
slides its way down
into the drains-
mixes with the wastes and vomited
dredge-water of a year gone whipping by,
I see the children of the defeated
mothers poking ugly toads behind the shed
with cardboard hats fashioned
from discarded Budweiser boxes,
barefooted on dewy grass
with capes of an old bed-sheet
thrown out when daddy found mummy
in the arms of another woman~
I watch the fathers of men
smoking, sunken, and sitting
on the docks
of the world's beach-towns
wondering forlorn how they got there.
Their orange cigarette tips-
dying stars over the water.
The collective orange glow
both artificial and desperate
shines forever outward~
toward the pole
where Johnny always kisses Sally
and they love each other
until they don't.
I stumble home at dawn
on the quietest day of the year with
the undergraduates:
Seekers of love
Seekers of purpose
Seekers of seeking,
Glassy eyed and slurring
Memorized facts about underground reservoirs
And the disappearance of the ********* honey bee,
Falling into ditches
And lying there with the sunrise in our eyes
Drinking and smoking anything
That will help us
forget we're watching the sunrise from a ditch
forget that if we're lucky
we too will be sitting on those docks,
flicking cigarette butts into the water,
and hoping Sally thinks about us sometimes.
Now-
the worried porch lights of Orange County
are turning off-
~And the mothers are curling their blonde hair
hoping someone will secretly fantasize about them
at work
~The fathers are covering up the smell
of cigarettes and alcohol with expensive cologne
and fantasizing about that blonde from work
~And the graduates have invested
in more comfortable ditches
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
We live
In a world
Of do not's,
Broken promises.
A world filled with lies,
Fake smiles and
Immediate "I'm okay's";
Inanimate demons,
Delicious regrets,
Dark paradises
That take us beyond
Our mind's
Control.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
nodus tollens- the realization that the "it" of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore
you call me your butterfly;
your little butterfly child
with my weak bones,
weak skin
and a weak heart.
you call me your butterfly
and my head fills with honey; you say you love me.
you call me your butterfly
and suddenly i can’t help but melting
when you look into my eyes.
you call me your butterfly
and suddenly i want you to be mine
till our wings become soft and dissipate in the warm winds.
you call me your butterfly
and say we are going to fly around the world
to see the black sky paradises
and the nightshade blues.
and all of the other hues.
you say that even in death
our love will last forever.
you said that when you called me your butterfly child.
tell me i’m yours when we are all alone
and maybe i’ll tell you you’re mine.
tell me you love me when i rest my head on your chest.
and maybe i’ll tell you i love you too
tell me you need me when you run your hands through my hair
while we lay in bed for the last time
and maybe i’ll need you just as much.
tell me you want me when you look into my eyes
and maybe i’ll tell you i want you just as much.
butterflies don’t say maybe
and neither do i.
i’ll call you mine when we are alone.
i’ll tell you i love you when i rest my head on your chest;
feeling every one of your heartbeats and breaths.
i’ll tell you i need you when you play with my hair;
the smell of you lingers in my hair
as i lay in bed dreaming of all of our time together.
i’ll tell you i want you when i look into your eyes;
for when i look into your eyes
the wind stops blowing
the sun stops shining
and my mind stops thinking.
if you have to fly away that’s okay
if know we promised to stay
but sometimes is rains when it’s not supposed to
and sometimes we pull flowers out of the ground
just to see them die and change
so i understand if the wind is going to blow you in a different direction
but don’t forget about the days where we chased the sun
and ended up talking to the moon
and don’t forget about the picture-perfect memories
where our smiles looked so big
that no one would have guessed that we were not happy
and don’t forget about all the nights we laid awake
talking about the plans we had for ourselves
and the plans we made together
and don’t forget about every shock
that you felt when my skin brushed up against yours.
you are my butterfly.
eventually, we will come together and fly.
for now, you can visit the black sky paradise
and the nightshade blues
and i’ll come one day
and be with
you.
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 1:11 PM UTC
Beginning in the evergreens,
Where the waters run sweet as wine,
The skies sing out shattering,
The ground spins down below
His marching feet.
One thousand and one years
Left him in the earth,
And raised up Typhon,
Come lightning staff,
Come thunder breath.
Moving through the mountains,
Purpled by the sun,
Floods cutting through the rock,
Come traveling through the caverns,
Through the cloud's rain that tear down.
Eagles eating gods,
And green, green trees stretching hands,
He stumbles through the paths,
Going all martyr in the shades.
Eventually, his progression meets the sun,
That scorches shadows from their place,
Plumes of fire preaching,
Here he finds the meadows,
Melting all gone in the red and stubborn sand.
Oh and there he fights the priests,
Oh and there he summons hell,
From the sun that never dies,
And the seasons never change.
There go I,
Through the paradises of elephants,
(White and rouge)
Palaces of sultans in the sultan shade.
Armageddon heavens twisting,
Where the spindle-bound spires raise.
There go I,
Vagrant feet forging,
The miles in meter
And the deserts in their damnation.
Eventually, the vagrant finds the rivers.
Eventually, there he claims all Moses,
Running wild through these waters,
Cutting heel into valleys pale and pink.
Golden Hordes, and god-kings,
And paisley patterns branded in the eye;
There are the journeys going unhindered,
Where the snow meets the soul.
The vagrant with his body,
Naked in the mind,
Storm by boat in the dead of winter,
Warmed by sails in the dead of spring.
The vagrant going east,
Then around again and west,
There shores of silver,
Horns of plenty fallen found.
One thousand and one years
Gilded in the green,
Fluorescent accents smiling,
Sounds smelting in the foreign forests.
The vagrant meets the sea
After his trials in their numbers,
Blankets thrown up,
White sheets waving,
Clairvoyance in antiquity.
The sea is blue and washing,
The vagrant's eyes are marbled,
As the notes progression goes
The water kisses the air.
Pillars taller than the stars
Stretch to heaven forgetting,
There oceans rising,
And the tranquil music dancing.
Tripped out not wanting,
Rise and risen,
The scavenger surface
And the molten mound.
Poor traveler,
In his vision where all eyes meet,
The savage and sacred nature,
The hurricanes and blissful storms.
Poor traveler,
Not meet your end,
One foot in the grave,
Where a million, million angels
Carry you down.
And poor traveler,
King in concert,
There hills and crevasses crawl to him,
Call to him,
Leave all their pasts searching.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
Touch, hold embrace my mind. Feel my spine and let us intertwine, into one bright sun of ultimate paradises. No, no one anyone; somebody? Please someone. I have been casted upon with a unbreakable thread of this lovely marked temple.
I am not lovely of them all, no pity here. Loveless is grateful and better then an unforgiveable, whirlwind of feelings, hatred and frozen heart. I am Loveless.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
You are not a narrative,
not prepared, not braced
save for your teeth.
Your eyes, surrounded by
shields of glass have their
quotas of emigrate emotion
to fill like morning mugs,
so they're seldom gone
from their post upon the
crossing bridge of your nose.
Your eyes, with their Chernobyl centers,
like candied apples with caramel lace,
blanketed with coldness and a
cunning vision glaring from the pupil
with a sparkle smirk.
Your cheeks are, like you, high and haughty,
bones pressing against the cream of your face
like a lover needing release from these
non-consensual bonds.
You seem to have a thing for blondes
and non-committed things: shrugs and loves.
Your podium skirt, your pedestal boots
do little to solidify. You are sly liquid
slipping between mental cracks
and broken minds like Eden's serpent infestation.
You're the breaker of greater paradises.
You revise the despised accent to suit
you like a tailor, a censor, black bars
going lengthwise across your chest
when you wear that dress
and vertically in your future.
Get used to grey.
You're a marker, standing tall like a tombstone,
dates written in sharpie, a conviction epitaph
from your days of being corrected
by greater minds you accept like false diplomas.
A crimson bracelet once twinkled
around your wrist, or so you say
with your eyes. You think you've died
before, once more to live.
Maybe once you were someone worth a ****
before you turned into prom incarnations.
You seem to think that, like the wine
your daddy bought you, you have a kick,
and even though you're all leg, your
thighs were never good enough for you
and maybe you show them off too much.
Like a hotel, you try to accommodate
other souls within you, a biome,
but there's only vacancy inside your heart
and that's the pool with the broken filter.
Your sign mouth, neon lips all aglow
promote you and your greater
philosophical concepts written
from eight thirty to eleven
on notebook pages and margins.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
So close,
yet separated by the endless plain artificial
our minds create an expanse between the paradises of our imagination and the struggles of reality.
It is a mental prison that we fabricate to avoid risk,
but in doing so we avoid the reward that comes along-
for even a failed endeavor is a success in that it was an endeavor at all.
Why do we never take exceptional leaps,
even when they are from a sinking ship?
Why do we cling to the submerging lifeboat
rather than test the waters, and test our own true capabilities?
Change is such a menacing figment that we impose upon the natural transience of the world.
The only time change is made is to protect the status quo.
Because we are human.
Because walking into a dark cave, just to explore the wonders within,
is not something that is in our nature.
I dare to wonder
what are in the concealed depths of the world-
I know beyond the surface wonders exist far more mystical than those I place at the end of my unreachable expanse.
But I can’t take the plunge alone-
thinking about the strangling darkness clouds thoughts of the hidden light.
My nature gets the better of me as well.
But still I dare to dream,
and hope one day I can surpass this,
confront this,
and become a truly transcending mind
past the mundane into the uncomfortable place where humans dare not go-
because it is new, and scary,
and doesn’t fit with our delusional fantasies that our suffering,
our endless strides to an unreachable goal, are noble.
We are destined to suffer as a general population because we put our goal before us,
and convince ourselves we can’t move towards it.
But some will do the unthinkable and march to society’s vision of ridiculous endeavors,
and once in a while, someone achieves the goal-
the goal to go for your goal,
whether you taste the fruits of your labor or are left a tragic failure.
At least tragedy is cathartic,
at least it means you tried to thwart your nature.
Maybe living a double nature of hope and tendency is impossible, and maybe it destines me to fail.
But if I do, it’s not I that is the loose part in the machine of society.
Maybe it means I was the only one that was truly free from it.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
My vision's extreme
In the dreams I discern
From the truths I have seen
Through my passion to learn
Or the levels I turn up
My mind microwaves
In the money I burn
With a sacrilege fervor
In every concern
For a naturalist order
Where I am the hero
On silver surf boards
And webs that I spin
All amounting to zero
For greedy ring lords
My sting will strike down
Their thrones of excess
With my Leninist unrest
And save the world with methods that
Most leaders would detest
Like finding peace in nothing
But the self-destructive ends
To justify the means
Of the passing words with friends
Though the love you share is real
Your lives will move in flashes
I enjoy it while lasts
And then I burn it all to ashes
For I find my warmth in blizzards
Roastin' grand old dragon wizards
As I slither with the lizards
Running shivers down their crooked spines
And sautéing their livers
With some venom as my glass of wine
Droppin' toxin trips divine
Baptized in a river of the finer-sided knife
While I'm gettin' schizophrenic
In the severed ties to life
To empathize with those
Less fortunate than me
By calling it compassion
When I'm just an empty sea
Because I've felt it all before
And died at least a dozen times
But I still search alone for more
Than coloring the lines
With these radical approaches
To slaughtering the infantile
Crawling, begging roaches
By forcing them to stand against
The real exterminators
I'd Dooku them like Anakin
Did in the tusken raiders
Bringing justice to the galaxy
As I become Darth Vader
Still the chosen Jedi knight
Since my Eden is an orchard
In a poison apple bite
Despite my balanced forces
That are rooted in the trees
Making green the autumn leaves again
To plant my lega-seeds
By shedding skins to sin with Eve
In paradises lost
I'd sell my soul to Satan
No matter what the cost
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 3:13 AM UTC
We remember the promise, the oath, the flowing words taken straight from the
serpent's crooked mouth. We knew once the promise of immortality, the miracle of my
skin and yours and it was then that we had the miracle cure for loneliness. We knew
once of love and patience and kindness. We knew once of sun and warmth and peace.
We knew all of this, and it never once took its existence from our healthy pink souls.
Lately, we have been paving our roads in gold. We sing mountain songs to the
resilient soil and murmur our prayers against the air - all along looking for the right way
to cheat god. Shapes and souls move constantly against each other, but we are all alone
in our own thoughts, singular in our skin. This is the threat of knowing, of seeing
clearly, of looking straight into the sun searching for reason. We together (on our own)
bury out cleared eyes in calculations; latitude, longitude and hemispheric paradises. We
are all looking for Eden.
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 12:57 PM UTC
Precocious, finding a love
In the bared morn, a hat to liberty
Seldom in league, fame is a corner of us
True, the notion to fend for essentiality
Count me in, a friend will notice
The taste in harmony and new pasts
To a climate of sense, serious enough
To limit one more stare to avarice...
To the common ground
Of a silent watch, for better call, to contrary
Sake, we deem the curious without a sound
Meant like a ghost of reality, the truth to carry...
A hint of a clue to worry for a besmirched eye
Known naked like a shrewd patience was...
See the coiling heat of me, when the silence has died
Will a lovers flower land on the needs, succinct does?
**** terror in the frown of ingenue
Spoken worlds of decision, to look for a paradises crowd
Hope and chastity, will the run fast or few?
Letting tongues remember their gifts, we see a legend proud...
Tales of the adding
Tales of supremacy come to a tout
Of what was, a hap in the skew of misery profound enough, linger
With me, when the careful ability of an energy, is in route
Past, present, future
Compared in a heavenly guise, of choice and meagerer sorts
Let like a flicker of light, in the behalf of a wish, so curious
Made by solemnity, to live the life of privilege, of the times we were
Mar 31, 2023
Mar 31, 2023 at 2:40 PM UTC
Bright this night seems, diamonds
made of dreams. Miracles happen
daily here, yet some still suffer.
I catch the gaze the devils gleam
And smile in pleasure.
I dance among the nocturne noises
and other screams of true bliss.
Kissing sweet stars and watching
It rain Paradises' tears.
Some will still summon the gods
Of dark pleasure and kiss with words
as dandelions, but I am appeased, for
now, here in my flat, drinking my
wine and listening to my jazz.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
I want to get back to my roots,
to mindful paradises
of games, graves, and tug -
heartfelt cries
for a superior love
to mine,
back to the lap to lap
jokes of knowing
too much too soon,
back to, to, to,
so through with
these mindless
breaths beholding
the loose yolk,
engulfing, suffocating
all possibility for more..
sank..
sank..
sank..
sank so deep
in all the moist
quicksand,
crusty, lying lips against another’s,
through all the thick emptiness,
all the feared silence within,
racing through all the speed bumps
in this tainted Neverland,
****
in harmony, again,
with the cheating cycle,
entangled in someone else’s nothingness,
as it has become yours entirely,
in those empty eyes
I’ve seen before - I know that you cannot recognize even yourself,
the true gaze
of white -
hollowed
out
by
darkness,
I pray for your deliverance,
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:55 PM UTC