"particulars" poems
Tar-dark world. The defining color is black, the inky night of her nocturnal hunts and the deep, bottomless dark of her alien retreat.
A watcher of men, she is everything and nothing. She might be too much of something, or too little of something else. Time will sort out the particulars.
There are no simple entry points – she demands engagement, and to be taken as a whole. Her discomfort is over her own allure, her undisturbed surface. It’s more about intuition and gesture than dialogue. They remain as echoes. They’ve made her beautiful in a real way, with hips and blemishes and dimples in her skin.
The imprint of the lives she begins to grapple with as her time on Earth extends, leads her to stop seeing herself as a mere conduit for her mission, and to start developing a sense of subjectivity.
Her life force is overlapping, shaping itself into a pattern of rings that simultaneously suggests a birth canal dilating, the stages of a rocket separating, and a lunar eclipse as seen through a telescope’s lens.
She's a life-form you can’t quite understand, but it’s carrying on relentlessly, like a beehive, moving backward through the constellations at first approach.
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
The path i tread has many unknown particulars
The good choices appear in only perpendiculars
I find at times I get trapped in the luring circulars
I seek the butterfly but i come across confused caterpillars
The path is flooded with sad, intrusive manipulars
Some are merely spectaculars
Whilst some dare to strike your jugulars
...I wish to find spiritual teachers but I'm surrounded by lost seculars
I peer and search even using my invented binoculars
But this path i tread has very few, calm examplars
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
Once I seen a human ruin
In a elevator-well.
And his members was bestrewin'
All the place where he had fell.
And I says, apostrophisin'
That uncommon woful wreck:
"Your position's so surprisin'
That I tremble for your neck!"
Then that ruin, smilin' sadly
And impressive, up and spoke:
"Well, I wouldn't tremble badly,
For it's been a fortnight broke."
Then, for further comprehension
Of his attitude, he begs
I will focus my attention
On his various arms and legs--
How they all are contumacious;
Where they each, respective, lie;
How one trotter proves ungracious,
T' other one an alibi.
These particulars is mentioned
For to show his dismal state,
Which I wasn't first intentioned
To specifical relate.
None is worser to be dreaded
That I ever have heard tell
Than the gent's who there was spreaded
In that elevator-well.
Now this tale is allegoric--
It is figurative all,
For the well is metaphoric
And the feller didn't fall.
I opine it isn't moral
For a writer-man to cheat,
And despise to wear a laurel
As was gotten by deceit.
For 'tis Politics intended
By the elevator, mind,
It will boost a person splendid
If his talent is the kind.
Col. Bryan had the talent
(For the busted man is him)
And it shot him up right gallant
Till his head began to swim.
Then the rope it broke above him
And he painful came to earth
Where there's nobody to love him
For his detrimented worth.
Though he's living' none would know him,
Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woful poem:
Frequent oil your safety-clutch.Porfer Poog.
2.6k
**** 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
Forgiveness is a wild beast
of an exotic land.
I know it. Its shape,
color, texture and
particulars of its habitat,
yet it means nothing in my
day to day; at least nothing that
impacts the path I walk
or world I touch.
It is as distant as a polar icecap
and about as much
help as a glass shard
beneath my bare feet.
This wild beast makes noises
perhaps sour perhaps sweet
to the ear
but I do not know
nor can I name them.
Daily I set out and go
stalking after it in
my bare feet and soul ache
unable yet to find it for myself
or others, I make
my ****** way along this
un-exotic, piercing path.
It is a way I cannot abandon
but I must laugh
at the folly of my purpose
for I have long since washed
the picture of this creature
clean and thoroughly sloshed
it remains in my mind.
I am left to blame the blood
and curse its trail tracking
ever after me in the mud.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 3:09 AM UTC
Best of all, there are lives in every skin. They know the words to your favourite language and the aching corporeality of smoke wisps as overused poetic analogy-- sativa with grapefruit, the particulars speak in toungezzz and sometimes I smoke **** and I'm so hungry, but I'm not hungry.. 6 o'clock and Dionysius means what the heaven needs **** done, it's awful-- no misfit twists and yab blam undeclared winter this year we call Fort Summerforever, BLANK, BLAM, expressive bottom-line, you don't look around anymore and check the bookshelves of your lives for those lucid Lucy detailers, trailers a warmer word for tracers, do the replacement parts fit all of the models and every time I went back to Trippy's it was the same guy, $70, oh the whole **** with the slide and all flattened preference to how in-this we are, how imagine how mystical, hanging those mushrooms on the wall, that weird pipe, cover ashes I dunno. In here it was I / thou and the digital paper-- I climb behind the eye and continent for a moment and hear see do 'it was a huge *** bag just filled with all this weed' bazooka balloon. crick the neck to create a feeling, oh but you'll listen to be come and be
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
no matter when I go to sleep
no matter when I go to sleep,
my next door neighbors
wake me up,
arguing.
History and the Future,
the oddest couple,
always in opposition,
in a world of mutual armament.
these unilateral siamese twins,
every dialectic ends the same:
one says I'll **** you,
then, they both start laughing.
(Eléa's #1 fav)
9/15/17 4:35am
<•>
mark me as safe
though the namelessly hurricane is never ending,
the roof, a sacrifice in the wind's temple,
letting millions of naked eyes be persecution witnesses,
marking me as safe, but not saved,
surviving, the destruction, a beautiful curse,
this violent universe.
9/15/17
4:30am
(gifted to Joel & Kelly Rose))
<•>
address me with no assumptions
for we will provide the facts,
with liberty and justice,
we will fill in the redacted parts
in the bill of particulars,
of the indictments signed namelessly,
only as the
The State's Attorney,
woo hoo,
We Who Always Win,
Cause We Make the Rules
9/8/17 9:31am
<•>
21801BB705 VDAB7
given this, the key,
the rulers announced thanks,
but not in anyway a necessite,
we will just smash the locks
and burn your personal history down,
until now it has JUST been whiteout corrected,
you're welcome!
9/14/17
6:37am
(gifted to Evan Crow)
<•>
don't major in the minors
don't major in the minors,
classicism is a double entendre,
you don't understand,
but you will,
when you study headless statues
in a museum
come back to life,
do not act surprised.
progress is not an iPhone,
it's taking a long bathroom break
in the mind.
(Graces's fav)
9/10/17. 5:37am
<•>
All the old battles are new again
All the old battles are new again.
every old poem is but a pretense, a new work refreshed.
cutting edges dull knives, easily resharpened by new use,
fresh excuses.
stale words that stick humans, come to life,
as any and all of your favo-rite
army of (fill in the blank)
___ism's,
marching in the name of good riddance
of the disloyal opposition.
nothing new under the sun,
history books predict the future.
(Eléa's #2 fav)
9/15/17 3:55am
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
Time is a movement that we cannot escape
It surrounds the Universe in its vastness day by day
And with time its particulars are all attached
DNA to a drop of rain, it all comes as one big batch
Everything changes on a second by second basis
From the dinosaur to the bird in the sky,
Music from minstrels then onto blur and Oasis
Our skin becomes decrepit as we live within our souls
We build, we knock down, we start again to help out those in need
Builders help build, a life now easy, just ask Nick Knowles
But lets think of the future and how we guide Earths ship
We live, we learn, already ruined our surrounding layer of ozone
Ditch the aerosols, drain the diesel's as one Ice-Age was just a little tip
The same as all relationships, hiccups happen as is life
A stumble, a small trip, pick yourself up as this is it
Another chance ain't gonna happen, believe what you will
A sweep up, a quick clean, start again so it is all gone
The Gods of time sometimes get bored, lets stir things up
There is only so much you can watch until,
Things Move On
JJB
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
A boy, but more like everything in the galaxy excluding ordinary through the eyes of her and she thought he should be stared down congruently through everyone else's eyes too with his clever hands rendering sweet enough to drown you with the softest of all touches. But she crossed her heart and knelt on her knees every night that no one blinked a contriving eye at all the particulars that made him the fantasy he was; the downward flick on the right side of his honey colored mane, the lonely dimple that rested on the left side of his cheek that only came to life when you kissed him or told him how colorful the fireworks were when your hands accidentally touched; his opposing colored eyes that wouldn't be noticed by anyone who didn't thrive to admire every particle of his being, eyes that should cost a million bucks and the freshest breath of air ever exhaled just to be looked into once. He deserved the worlds audience of eyes, but she's glad no one looked at him but her because if they had everyone would want his every last piece and he would be so viciously gone and she's oh so greedy and needs his every last part; the broken ones, the faded, the pieces that could never balance quite right without delicately falling apart. He was a matchbox who never ceased to ignite more than just sparks.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
Suicide me again oh love
it hurts to be overwhelmed with your humiliating zealous lust
my genitals nimbus like a glowing golden peach
so ripe corruption is shadowing hungrily
At church I forget I am an animal
slowly poisoned by communion , candles , brochures , verses ,
beautiful music of the spheres exalts all singers absolved
Purity lends me a shackle and a guiltless time on my knees
**** this pain these senses
basic needs met and yet i fret
particulars stick in my eye
I can't see how horrible i am
when i watch csi
my dna can betray me with babies and jail time
God please bless the homeless and starving far far away
while i am starving for pleasure as my overfed ego takes the last
bite of icecream eaten to avoid feeling alone
I hate this commericial
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force,
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill,
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest,
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ costs,
Of more delight than hawks and horses be;
And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast—
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take,
All this away and me most wretched make.
1.2k
the weatherman closes his umbrella & stands under the rain for a long time, after the taxi drives off.
earlier, he was on tv giving an update about the hurricane: the particulars on the direction, the wind's maximum speed, the storm signals - the weatherman could be reciting these from a telephone directory for all he cared. but he kept on saying the storm's name as if it was a lover scorned, yet still very much adored - like the telephone directory wasn't a book full of strangers at all; the weatherman cleared his throat several times as if it was the first name he ever recognized as being bad news. his hand shook through the tv screen when he hovered it over the satellite image of the violent winds.
what is the weatherman thinking about as he stares at his house, now? his rain boots are filling up with water & he just keeps on standing there, gathering what he can of her -
the weatherman lazily fumbles for his keys & unhurriedly enters his front door, like he is sorry to abandon the noise for an echoing quiet, like the four walls are infinitely more oppressive. & yet as droplets form into a series of familiar satellite images following him from room to room,
the weatherman will refuse to mop his unpolished floor. he will leave the water to dry & in the morning, revisit the path of her leaving by the water stains -
the most of what this weathered man can keep from the hurricane's namesake.
-j.g.
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 1:41 AM UTC
only English has disgraced itself, as a language,
it didn't learn from it's other Latin
orthographers, whether french or german,
just didn't learn from them,
i mean, English, the language,
could have started improving its style,
its orthography, adding accents, here and there,
improving elocution, it's worth the
particulars in harbours, ironically it isn't
a universal language, there are no universal
instances in using it, there are plenty
of particular instance that do require stresses
and other such involvements,
but the six brothers dreamed up too much
technology prior, the Grand Father of the Empire
split the cabbage patch between the five brothers:
gave much to the American son,
much also to the Australian son,
much also to the Canadian,
the South Africa got a part of Europe from the 1940s,
the Caribbean son received a pretty sunset,
the English son got ****** in the ***
and given what the newspapers are covering
i'm really sceptical while only children migrants
are welcomed... ********** the tournament
of who can shove an ice-cube into a teenagers
*** to make **** *********** seem cool?
really sceptical while the prime minister only
wants children... come, you following-up
the hot topics in british journalism?
but like i said, the one chance the English language
had to improve itself, to succumb to the
judgement of the preservation of the Latin via
a - z was to add diacritical marks, instead the internet
emerged and we simply got an Eaton mess...
look how mishandled English is among the young!
omni acronym omni short-script,
omni dyslexia,
lazy lazy buggers... while the Germans are fiercely compounding,
Rindfleischetikettierungsueberwachungsau
(law delegating beef label monitoring) - now let's
do some syllable surgery on it to get a tennis ball
bouncing rhythm:
rind' fleische' tikettierung' sueber' wachungsau' -
or thereabouts in Pomerania - and the French
such hark rather than trill Rs and produce excess
spelling via tongue ties upon tongue ties
(every time i hear it i just hear bubbly blue
bubbly blue bue bue and Moulin Rouge cancan) -
English is shrapnel, empty pistachio shells in comparison,
and yet still the internet proved how ugly
things became... *** LOL (e.g.); and yet i'm
finding it the most effective language for volume.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 4:37 AM UTC
Image
In a nation full of mirrored meanings
Losing the plot to the points made by editors
With the front to cover-up
The dots and dents
That differentiate one doe-eyed one-day wonder
From another
Not too difficult
Then
To discern from where our demons are derived
The motivation behind our mothers' mockery
All too often a fearful fantasy
That this will be a permanent reality
A lonely destiny of separation
In sanity
Choosing challenge as our champion
Causes less respect than one might expect to receive
From those persons whose pretence it is
To adore independence
In fact they abhor the idea
That they might not
Have got a clue
What's best for you
It's all so clear to them that the fix is a daily change
Lies in a variety of lipsticks
And the new best-dressed latest range
Of thigh-thwarting
Waist-winning
Sin-free super-fad foods
That nourish your neuroses
Whilst simultaneously stifling your spirit
While your mind is on your midriff
You're not wondering if the government have gained their votes
Through the generous use of their
Accumulative groins
And you are much less likely to ponder the particulars
Of the power plants you pass
If every article you read
Is ready to remind you
Of the importance you should place
Upon the proportions of
Your ***
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 12:39 PM UTC
as it's commonly said,
an apple a day
keeps the doctor away…
a song a day
sung or heard
keeps boredom at bay
a poem a day
written or read
fires up the brain cells
an art a day
created or viewed
keeps brain numbness away
a view of trees each day
keeps the mind fresh
and steady
but love
not love of particulars
or specifics
but love of all
love unconditional
keeps the whole being radiant
every minute
every day
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 7:50 PM UTC
My life as seen through my oculars
yes, all the exacts and particulars
sights rolling back in my memories
faces and places and things
full of the meanings
that brings
Seen through the eyes of a pessimist
a true cynic to a T, speaking honestly
but as I peruse what means more
her face and her eyes in my mind
I don''t look too far ahead
her eyes what I miss
All the time
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC
Teacher, you freed me.
Bit by bit I became willing to talk about I,
Myself, perched on a toilet seat pushing the soft
cushiony fabric into a tight oval to
commemorate the virgins of the midwest.
I can only hope the tenants won't mind.
I am not familiar with their particulars.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
✨SOMEONE I LOVED...
Dear heartbreaker,
Why are you chasing something that's already gone?
Why are you realizing your mistakes when it's all too late?
Why are you apologizing when I've already made up my mind?
Why are you giving me your time when my clock long stopped?
Why?
Why are you showing your concern, when every mistreatment is packed up and on replay in my mind?
Why are you trying to make things right when I don't care anymore,
Why are you finding it so hard to let go when I've already given up?
Why?
You knew a day like this will come,
You knew one day I'll get fed up and find my way out,
You knew one day I'll untie all the knots and set you free,
You knew one day I'll stop begging for you to stay,
You knew one day I'll stop apologizing for your mistakes,
You knew one day this love you called 'desperate ' will fade and turn out to an illusion.
You were my life,
But the blades of rejection cut deeper than a knife,
You were my breathe,
But that air we used to share, chokes me now,
You gave me reasons to live,
But now, no amount of threats can shake me with a life I no longer care about,
You gave me reasons to smile,
But nothing is genuine now, the smile I give is just a reflection of my pain.
Happiness, joy, were my particulars,
But now, pain is just part of me,
Sad songs, my comfort,
The hole you dug, my home.
Please, just don't follow me,
Don't ask how am doing,
Don't try to stop me from what I'm about to do.
Let the fire that kept our love burning,
Consume every piece of memory to ashes.
You are just a little too early, to say goodbye,
But a little too late, to save a life...
#broken_soul...
#shattered_heart...
©tiana... 💔
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 5:35 PM UTC
Sometimes, the sad stuff nestles
And offers a familiar strangle hold
But you offer me a stranger’s hold
And like a snow globe unsettled
The sad stuff scatters
Blood vessels open wide and wild and bold
And we go deeply upside down
All the particulates of our particulars
Dance around in carnal discussions
Of morality and philosophy and borders
Spoken in petite four letter words
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC
Finality in sodality
I can't believe this is happening
it's happened,
Once or twice before but
its getting easy to ignore
The folklore behind said words:
Noise of fidelity in the thick of empty echoes who whisper “resolution”
Elocution for the pollution of picayune particulars
Skip the singulars;
Trip the light of day under the sundry array of the mistakes you play everyday
I suppose
some songs will always be sung
Hung tongues from foreign beaches
Within reach, you said, all the time, but
I wouldn't be here
i shouldn't be here
(I wouldn't be finding the time)
i shouldn't be trying so hard to catch a rhyme
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
There's a certain moment when you have to cry.
A certain word, a certain tone, a certain piece of ****
who can't wait to say how everything has gone to hell
whispers in your fragile ears
and then it's over.
You could shrug, you could laugh
rubbing those tell-tale torrents away
claiming allergies or dry contacts
and you'll know, they'll know
and pretend together.
You could try cowardice and run
finding safe haven in fuzzy socks and tired pillows.
But what you won't do is two-fold:
There is no holding back a broken dam
nor is there drowning its heedless audience.
But today it's me
not you
and I need your half-hearted hugs
your awkward comforts.
Anything, really.
I don't care if you suffocate.
I won't tell you particulars
you won't give me advice
and that way
we'll never disappoint the other.
No waterfalls
just a pond
the perfect inaction
of soul and body.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC