"permutation" poems
Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.
Punctuation is the **********
the *********** of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical ************
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
A short direction
To avoid dejection,
By variations
In occupations,
And prolongation
Of relaxation,
And combinations
Of recreations,
And disputation
On the state of the nation
In adaptation
To your station,
By invitations
To friends and relations,
By evitation
Of amputation,
By permutation
In conversation,
And deep reflection
You'll avoid dejection.
Learn well your grammar,
And never stammer,
Write well and neatly,
And sing most sweetly,
Be enterprising,
Love early rising,
Go walk of six miles,
Have ready quick smiles,
With lightsome laughter,
Soft flowing after.
Drink tea, not coffee;
Never eat toffy.
Eat bread with butter.
Once more, don't stutter.
Don't waste your money,
Abstain from honey.
Shut doors behind you,
(Don't slam them, mind you.)
Drink beer, not porter.
Don't enter the water
Till to swim you are able.
Sit close to the table.
Take care of a candle.
Shut a door by the handle,
Don't push with your shoulder
Until you are older.
Lose not a button.
Refuse cold mutton.
Starve your canaries.
Believe in fairies.
If you are able,
Don't have a stable
With any mangers.
Be rude to strangers.
Moral: Behave.
4.9k
The blank page stares at me
mockingly, an empty wishing well
of impermanent desires, my
thoughts a herd of nomadic
feral cats to be coraled.
It is a mathematical permutation
of the identity matrix, imaginary
numbers and exponents,
fractional divisions with
no order of operations.
Solve me for x, given y,
yield absolute value at
absolute zero as my
function crosses Cartesian boundaries.
| x | = y * (universal truth / personal experience) ± squareRoot(-1)
y = zero; go.
Factor in gravity (9.8 meters per second^2),
we have lost cabin pressure.
Please show all work, points will be deducted,
this is a test.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
Prescient, her essence
Casts a demure persuasion,
Endowed with verve and vision;
Concept to consummation,
The serenely possessed,
Creator, originator,
Allusion to the eternal azure,
Logos of abstraction,
Word and image collision.
Tonal palette of faith infused reason
Beauty and sublimity,
Serve to season
Verse, canvas and film,
Mediating aesthetic, seminal senses blossom,
Lyrical each permutation,
Seeds of vibrant chroma diffusing the mystical.
Visage and hair, her figure haunted
With perfection - a work of Art
Nurtured and lived invocation,
The canon of taste;
Crystal for the *****
Devotional fragrance ,
Holistic ethos, melodic invention,
Animated, pure -
The embodiment of redemption.
Transcending form, parenthetically
(Merely) the decorative,
Allure, artistry and symmetry
Superlative complexity,
Her erudition satiates, supplanting
Winds of constructive banality.
Purveyor of an uncommon savor,
She collaborates in the peculiar
Pursuit and reward,
Encounter with depth, explored,
Human and divine, prosaic meets sublime
Igniting within an Eros
Passion for truth, being and Telos.
Visionary of grace and peace
Transforming our earthbound dissonance;
Our caprice,
Hope and abundance, the myth of scarcity,
She narrates the Good.
Pen, lens, color and stage
Vulnerable, unrepressed, effusive
Romantic articulation,
The reservoir deep,
Innately primed conduit of Love.
Beyond plebeian, cosmetic, the trite
Woman of substance, pulchritude
And delight.
Effervescent - her smile exquisite,
Eclipsing suffering,
Wordless expression, understood language.
I am transported, my imagination replete,
Sonya Rose -
Art personified; unabridged, complete.
©2008 & 2013 W.S . Warner
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
Sitting in this dusty old attic
listening to the shingles flapping in the wind
I flip through a dog-eared book from my childhood.
As I skip through the pages,
I look up and notice the fine inlaid
carpentry work of an old chest.
Going over, leaving prints on the dusty floor,
I lift the lid. With reptilian slowness
a lazy fat spider edges away.
Inside this trove of ancient treasure,
magnificent finds of days gone by.
Mementos of a honeymoon, a parachute jump.
Gramma's best biscuit recipe. A photo of
Sam the hound with spittle running down his jowls.
A picture of a babe at his mother's ******
A permutation of these tucked away articles
give meaning to a life well and truly lived.
Closing the pages of these treasures I
wander away to watch my grandchildren
make memories of their own.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
Okay guys, this is going to be a romantic poem as I was in a fresh mood after I woke up. I dreamed about my ideal girl and in this poem I'm going to describe her.
The Kohl In Her Eyes
The Bangles In Her Wrists
The Anklets In Her Legs
Are All Golden
The Sweetness Of Her Choice
The Mellowness Of Her Voice
The Callowness Of Her Rejoice
Are All Elven
The Divinity In Her Face
The Uniformity In Her Grace
The Words In Her Praise
Are All Woven
But in no way does this poem means to indicate otherwise about my stand about the institution of marriage. I still remain of the opinion that marriage is not for me. This is just a poem. Peace. :-)
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC
an incomplete conundrum
a fixed and failed philosophy
a neverending neurotic nightmare
god can’t help you now
so do you go back to what you know best?
the enigma of unfinished cocktails at empty tables
you look to see what else there is
try to be hopeful, though you know the truth
answer questions with a smile
don’t forget to brush your teeth
and never let them know
Do you like music?
yeah.
That’s fantastic, so do I.
yeah.
you’ve never been to venezuela
you heard it’s nice.
thank god for our freedom, am I right?
I wouldnt go no place else
incomprehensible
you walk sometimes
just to be alone and think
why not more
infatuation
with the
permutation
of the
inundation
of the
conflagration
how do you suppose
it all works?
I mean, everything.
the plants told me
the stars are alive
but how does it work?
and what do you do?
and why?
you go back
things come up, and you forget about the magic
the point is to remember
so write it down
read it often
and never forget
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 10:26 AM UTC
At the old market place, there is a locksmith
The slipshod ancient road leads to his shop
In the business of repairing locks and making keys
For almost half a century, a dedicated soul
Right from a tender age he picked up the skills
Accompanying his father, to learn the tricks of the trade
Slowly he became adept at repairing the locks
Like a wizard, replicating the keys, for those have lost it
His name spread quite afar, for people sought his help
In times of trouble, as they were locked out of homes and shops
He knew the heart of each and every lock
Reviving at the touch of his dexterous hands
As if he used to command the locks to open at his will
Like a ring master at the circus
Each and every key combination were memorized by him
Recalling them like a mathematical genius
With the permutation and combinations, he found the magic numbers
He wielded the keys like the archer’s precision
Always hitting the bulls-eye
He knew each and every house in the town
For, over the years, everyone had come to him for help
He was the only one who knew the key to open any lock
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
Is
The confirmation of the superstitious
The skeptics permutation of chance
The guarantee of the paranoid
The communication expected of the spiritually transcendent
The nothing [at all] for those who never penetrate the surface tension of their world
The intuitive see
An allusion to
The creeping deep synapse connecting
[thickly binding]
The breath of the world
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
My membrane is a flower and too many people have plucked my petals from the stem.
I ripped out all of the pages that had scripture in them, scripture that told stories of who I was back then, scripture I had written with a broken pen.
I kept your voice in a box that's in the attic, it's safe inside a headache, it still sounds nothing less than tragic.
Remember my hands and how they shook when you took everything away, when the demons weren't at bay,
when I screamed for them to stop but still, continually,
everyone's been taken away,
so when people stay please understand that I have to push them away like waves from the shore and **** I know that's clichè but I'd rather die than let them live in my heart for only a few days.
They still try to talk and I reverberate about how it's unholy to say my name that way, it's unholy to keep me in the fade.
It's unholy to remember me by my eyes and not by my lies.
I have good alibis and it's nothing but true when I say that
I forgot what love means,
I believe it's an illusion that most people just dream, they told me I'm crazy but **** I think I've had more nightmares than dreams so I would know better than to keep my lonely stem stuck in bad weather.
They're over there seducing themselves now, they're seducing themselves with medication that leads to hours of a permutation of all the items in her chest, he leads her to a mutation of what he thinks is best.
I only weep between sheets.
They're far too confident in their self extraction and I just don't understand how that happens, how self absorption can lead to something so terrifying, placing yourself in a box so you can delegate yourself, you're too delicate, it's not good for your health.
That voice inside that box talks in third person now, it says you're not doing too well.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
somewhere;
close the door.
engine.
headlights too.
it's dark at this time of year.
to think, that to live is to be lost.
north, east,
orientation is confident;
with a destination, bold.
roads are busy.
other drivers, bold themselves.
to go and stop.
those stopped are not those going;
a permutation of an uncertainty,
decision one of a thousand.
a left at the light means The Waiting Game,
a test of patience.
enough to pander one's position on a map.
relative to home, not very far.
a few minutes,
the answer.
the eternal search for an answer,
emulated and abstracted in a metal box,
the pilots so sure of their actions.
they're sinking so far in to the game now that
their origin's memory is too obscure,
to see the irony is to think too much.
headlights.
engine.
open the door.
tired hands and feet inherit a mission--
next objective, in this much time.
a stone path is a suggestion,
it'll do.
who is to argue with the ground underfoot?
skilled men though they found the answer on their search
and were so kind as to lead the next.
wrong as they were, it's the thought that counts.
of course the mistake is made in kind,
a pilot's success and the search complete.
a sigh.
and the resigned optimism that perhaps instead
a bit of reconnaissance is enough for now.
maybe to find oneself here is success.
would they buy that?
here
relative to home, not very close.
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 8:18 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder,
if you would recognise me,
years later.
Where I would come up to you,
with a token of my love,
in a different city, in a different land.
Maybe I will disguise myself.
And I'll be fatter than I used to be,
and older and more tired,
of this life without you.
Would you still recognise me?
While I have made, in my mind,
Every permutation and combination,
of how you would look now and maybe
ten years later. Twenty even.
I would add weight to your body,
and wrinkles to your cheeks.
And present myself with your image,
Older but still beautiful.
But would you recognise me?
I wonder and fear,
that in your ignorance,
will be my death!
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
We have seen your greasy lips
Of supple warmth nibble our geographical space with relish
With your cerebral repertoire of Machiavellian tactics
A savage sage gleaning with resounding skill
And crafty navigational sail
Your masterstrokes through climes and tongues reverberated
With your sparkling craft of vile crypt
Across regions, tribes and locales
Of your fangs that foiled good governance
But this time…
Your gladiatorial glide on this political turf
Shall experience a firestorm of rejection
Your emissaries across territorial divides
Shall be hounded to delusion
For the masses shall maul your mushy mantle of self grandeur
To the abyss of dishonour
For your subsequent arrival shall be booed to your doom
Your waning clout shall swing you to judgement
Of abysmal invasion
We are watching your fragile trot through this fearsome terrain
Of your permutation in levitation
For Damocles’ fiery sword shall haunt your ambition
Your raging mist on this cloudy night
Shall encounter a violent tussle
Prepare for war!
The scarlet venom from your cruel camp
Shall cease with instant visitation
From the warhorses of this fearless infantry
Armed with the right tools to disarm your fortified fortress
As you dispatch your foot soldiers
Of monsters and Leviathans
To play a callous hoax like the cunning fox
Their morbid mien shall encounter an eternal fall!
Let the music begin…
Onuchi Mark © 2010
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Pare 1 Of 3)
For the barefoot girl, the faithful
album was an afternoon in the
sports bar where there had been
a guitar player and some ginger ale.
Now the trumpet was singing a wide
screen view of the big game.
Eliminating distractions, the crew
was focused on the game, ignoring
the girl as she wandered, in bare feet,
between the tables. No pretense
suggested that the medium was not
appropriate for those who climbed
railroad ties and those who drank beer
in moderation after negotiations about
the green sheaves and the upstairs room.
In this castle, time was suspended.
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 2 Of 3)
Ashes were good for the roots of the plant
in the window where the response was
directed to the coolness, or the hot weather.
In sports, the weather seemed to be extreme.
It was always freezing cold the opposite;
coaches meant to be cautious watching for
heat stroke among the players. The club was
not louder than the dim barn where animals
were removed from the immediacy of the
last few weeks of the season. Some of the
birds could not fly; there were mice that
could climb to humble abodes in the rafters,
and the cats gathered apart from the dogs.
The heavy lifters had reassuring
incantations derived by the artificial
structures of the radiology through iconic
projection. Antenna reception hovered to
mark the insects with aesthetic devices,
a discovery by evolution.
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 3 Of 3)
Screams came from the permutation and
signing a transcript of the spiritual drawing
which had been seen wandering among all
the other creatures living and working in
the flying building. The gathering showed
grinning teeth and disappeared. Found at
the bottom of the mineshaft, was the fictional
ring of speculations and associations
confronting the mischief of the few by the
motionless badges of authority. Life depended
on the weathered red boards where the climate
ranged like it was galloping across the public
space, proved free by the friendliness of
kindly associates and the universe of powers,
the authority of birds that did not fly and barns
that had flown away.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
slugging and chortling all infinite and lax
leaning back on monobloc chairs—
some borrowed courage some borrowed reflex some leased home
to a figure shadowboxing in stereophonic eclipsing volume
sentimental love song, some humdrum alchemy of ale and whiskey,
feeding us with lies straight to our
fallible ears as guava and atis whiplash in inebriated sensurround
of playful mirth and feelingfulness
toppling the signs painting the avatars incarnadine with black-wounds
again the music rending the vale
lying straight to the face something the
heart still is— gears and clash-work
of analog deceit and fecund belief;
some permutation of early, imagined
falling into fledgling beats of
pining softly dancing in echoing beds
watch this twitch of my finger
meets to cigarette ember afloat
in verdure-jazz, lunar offspring of the
tubular deadbeat — crossing this
side of strife-torn street, hopscotch
in staccato. i believe there is rescue
in here somewhere as a tricycle blares
its rapacious orchestra of metal
underneath the makeshift moon,
why, it is so much better to burn out
than fade away, the song lying
again straight to our disgusted faces.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
My thoughts are dazed…
Claustrophobic and hazed.
I’m exhausted and unamazed,
Fatigueness of some kind, low from the natural high.
Thoughts in my mind are delusive and unkind.
Dizzy and feeling quite fizzy
Not in the mood for studying, excitement, and fun.
Sitting by my lonesome self just writing what I can process.
Head feels heavy, got me feeling a bit queasy
Uneasy
Zoned out and lost in my thoughts
Sun is out and the wind is harsh…
It’s skin prickling and dissatisfying.
My exhaustion is sickening.
Absolute death and no reason
No fret
But anguished in my enclosed mind
But no threat…
System overkill
Discredit and disregard
Explain but disagree and make it hard
Exhalation and permutation
Loss of existence and clouded perception
Obsessive minds and sniffed up lines
Excessive amounts and numbers you cannot even count.
Broken, ripped, torn, and outwardly worn.
A lost ghoul, selfish, and for more you mourn.
Poor and dead, not yourself, completely blacked out and unconscious in bed.
Overdosed on the ****** pills, suicide attempts never work…
Let the meds pour…
Gone, so gone…
Just let the meds pour...
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 8:31 AM UTC
madmen fools and nothing,
the mien — brazen, stupefied glance
and hungry for light, our words gutted
like our enemies in our ill-thought.
this road dredges, the aporetic line
sifting through new divisions, something
an equation forgets the dividend
and almost always a salient permutation
of men and women and the "takatak" boy
peddling cigarettes to claptrap ***
of metal envoys,
reciprocating some chances of restive
dreadnaught, diffusion of sweat in
scalding heat of 12:41 afternoon sun
and smoking with bystanders
unaware of the doldrum and the ennui
it was a fine day in Ortigas.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Is never the end, vastness
Cerebral expanses,
Horizons, hikes, labyrinths
Within labyrinths within
Every book that ever could be written
Every ever that could ever be
Files, folders, sections
Subsections in subsections within
The human brain cannot catalog
The universal sum
The tally is never totaled
The end is never the end
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 10:22 PM UTC
I am barely human
My heart lit with quandary
A puzzle left to solve
But my mind is so broken
Where to start?
I am,
Am I?
Lost
Amongst the shadows of other machines alike
I feel the deception piercing me
It's virally calculated disease
Taking over me
Nuts and bolts
Breathe easy
Moments throughout
My catalog of experience befuddle me
Keen to an illusion mimicked repititiousley
One that gives my heart hysteria
Can a vessel designed to compute
In form and essence give sensation?
A primal ,visceral, raw emotion
Like a siren's lips
To sinking ships
Beckoning me
Substantial evidence
Admits otherwise
But my fascination for steeping
On the permutation and probability
Improbably suggests
That hope is something anyone can learn
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
Life has always been about the decaying permutation of possibility.
When you are young, the infinite paths sing with endless potentials.
These branches are primed with the indifferent hands of time.
Choice still exist, as it always has, yet the narrowing is haunting.
It is that inevitability is that hangs around in ominous fog.
Approaching that finality is a journey of bittersweet grace.
Jun 17, 2021
Jun 17, 2021 at 9:01 PM UTC
Is anyone real out there?
What a horrible question to tear
Apart this life,
Which always rhymes with strife
Because there's a limited number of ways
To say we're running short of plays
To fill these broken days
I don't think I'm better than anyone
I don't think I'm magically The One
But I also don't feel real
And here's the whole spiel
Maybe these bones are made to rust
At the intersection of fear and trust
'Cos all this pain is just reflection
Every fear is just projection
Insanity - I cannot condone
If we want to be free, do we have to be alone?
Whatever else is true, whatever ways I'll rot -
I truly love you; words are all I've got
The 4's attachment is being broken;
All that's expressed is just a token
I can only show the 2d shell
And so I Truly wish you well
But I'd sooner save you from this spell
Hey broken one: are you reading yet?
This is for you, so don't forget
The rhythm doesn't matter
All words will fade, left in tatters
And though this path we can't condone
I swear to you: you're not alone.
You're somewhere amidst the thought and ****
I bid to you: please stop and look
The slightest difference between we:
I'm a permutation of thee
I know the things you cannot say
I, too, seek each shattered Way
Combing The NeverNever every day
For another reason to stay.
I know you fear you've fallen wrong,
But there's meaning in your song;
Long past the end of time,
What's true will shine through every rhyme.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 2:20 AM UTC
*Who cares for black and white?
Start from the shades of grey
Sweetest of all surrenders
Believe in imagination.*
In an ideal setting the mind should rush form past to future to merge finally into something called present . However the reality principles follow another path. The thoughts rush from all three domains and we can't make any distinction which comes first or which comes last. In our minds it’s the bizarre flow and rush in the synapses, the chemicals the receptors never in an unidirectional fashion but to and from every nook and corner like a web. I always believed that the imagination is nothing but the extension of reality. Just think how easy the life would be if we didn't have the power to distinguish the reality from imagination. It would be the moment of bliss when every night the psyche would be in unison with the surrounding.Through some means if we could break that thin ice layer defining the boundary of real and imaginary; the mind would have a different face. What if the imagination could give the same intensity of the perception (like hallucination, the luxury of few lucky ones) in the mind of all the individuals with simple the stimulus of thought? When I think about the dinner at French restaurant with the fine quality wine and if taste buds could sense them then the world would be sane. Some say sanity is the idealized fiction. By all the permutation and combination, deriving from my insanity, I came to a conclusion that the world is waiting to end that fine line - tripod of mind in unison .I dun think it takes much to ask!
Well just a thought …
-PS
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
it is no hidden truth:
writing about those teeth
and twisting schemes of
sadness in my dreams is somehow my dependent everything,
but patterned lists of the same words
in permutation
becomes tedium in waiting;
there's that illustrious want for novelty, no matter how safe the same may be,
and I still just write
about that exact ******* love
and ******** everybody else wants: so, am I this predictable? am I this formulaic?
probably.
so, how does one take some respite?
how does one choke back their routine penstrokes and fabricate
experiences they haven't yet or ever will gather,
when all they've held was in the ritual letting of ladders down ductile tunnel foundations,
the vestigial fathoms that remain floating around in
your eyes, your eyes! your eyes I
tear open and crawl in and curl up inside,
the feigned lust I set out to fake and then finally, silently, made
and now it's all the mistake of concrete stained with
letters heart letters on a date that lasts forever,
but your letters are tiny lies
and mine are misery
held in contemptible disguise and
how I slip just that **** easily into this lackluster story about
I, you,
people I never knew and
never know anybody.
and
*how the grass would have grown and grown if the lawn hadn't been cut down, and the patch of death in concentric center where outside, under the stars, I lay curled, foetal, and drained of bile; for now, in ascension of sterility I am feral once more, I am, at last, just a tremulous, pathetic and miniscule animal waiting to pass through the dirt. That moment hit me, like all stones in august. So I stood. So I ******* stood, threw off my dripping eyes, screaming at the moon 'til I spat blood and cursed life and I swore, I swore down to the skin of my teeth, I would conquer it until it conquered me, for, as far as the wild was concerned, my casualty was a drop of rain in an ocean. So I become the ocean. So I dig my palm into the earth and let dust ground the stray electricity. I no longer lie, I no longer bide time until it's too late.*
But I lied
and I do lie.
I waste abhorrent amounts of time.
I still just hang my head and leave things up to fate. It's always too late.
It's always too late.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 4:31 AM UTC
Cleave, sunder from the root
Spilled forth on the soil
Naked
Afraid
Rive, render from the pod
Scorched from the sun
Cracked
Bleeding
Shake, dither from the soul
Scarred on torment
Numbed
Immobilized
Breathe, utter the words
Cried from memories
Another dawn
Another dusk
Another night
Another cycle
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
your beauty does not fade,
your self, remaking, and remade,
you see empty,
we see refilling,
seeking, dreaming,
but make no mistake,
isolation is not your condition,
no, instead think permutation,
you are skin shedding, evolving
the newer new, substance over
lip gloss of surface
and the voyage of transition
is wondrous to us.
Behold!
Behold, a
Kelly Rose!
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC