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now, I will try to abandon time and space
in this form of truancy.

what is this abandonment trying to measure?
  the abeyance of presence.

what is the measured variable trying
to dissect? the impossibility of absence.

a poem aspires to be something concrete. a poem
   is what is real and imagined in the same context.

I try to invoke Abad -- what is imagined is most
   real.  this shall be its leitmotif.

now, i imagine the horizon as a point

of origin, or a template to some familiar projection,
  or a tagebuch summarized into a fine line
of allegories and denouement.

what this line tries to prove is that

an enjambment is a mimesis.

acknowledge the sublimity of a
  creation. notice that the sequence that will
be promised is diegesis of absence as form
     but not a poem as in a poem that enshrines
lucidity -- but the lack of it.

there is only the photograph of horizon
   as hypothesis of perpetuality. this now

is a subject, a speculative undertaking rearing a
   poem -- writing as preparatory for absence,

finishing a line as pursuit of thesis, gravity of
    its heft as tabulation of emphasis, or
verbosity, which may be telling of meaning or chronology.

a poem that is not a poem,
  But poem as a form of absence

that aspires to be a poem.

what is transpiring now is that i am assuming
   an utterance: utterance as being here,

and perhaps voice as sound of becoming but not finality
   of presence, and sound as disappearance

post-peak. its point-source silence and formation
   of thought, and then a poem is written as

evidence of disappearance in deep and close
   contest with a vision coming from another

audience as an objective supposition or
   reaction that may propel an exchange

but only when silence is entertained does
  silence happen, and so this may be dismissed

as a monologue among dialogues insofar as
    only to pinpoint this arrogant feat:

i may be speaking glossolalia, or in tongues,
  and that i seek no reprieve nor vestige,

all the more response -- intone of voice
   stilling itself in the tense setting

of being gazed upon, glazed with coherence
  of senses from one identity to another say,

you hear me speak as in speaking
as baring sound.
   but now that i have spoken, i have already undone

  the quiet to stir volumes and amplitudes
to attest sound-fade as vital component of absence,

whereas this poem produces ample sound
  if you pay close attention to yourself reading

in the lull form of reading (your
breathing will have intensified here,

your reasoning will have made so much
  noise here) as i continue to whittle

away in form of verse, verse not as poem,
  verseliteration not as occupancy of space,

but all in all, a body of work
that is a visage of movement - or a trace of absence, physics of space and kinesis of departure.

a delineation of a thing that was once
   thriving in threshold accompanied

by its tendency to wane: sound may be an
     analogue of unheard, as sound is impervious
to quietude but quietude conscious of sound
     and its potential,

that quiet coheres to its inclination to consummation,

this completeness so emphatic,
this allegory as
  absence the somatic, axiomatic,

indefatigable machinery of a presage,
   or continuity -- this poem that is not a poem,

but an excess of sound, a body that
   deserves end,  a punctuation.
     verity of this argument in basest form.

this body of work as absence
  and its completeness, volition

of its enigma: is this the end
  of sound or your silence summoned?

to drag it back, its recalcitrant body,
   is form of revision, then possession

of an absence, a recollection that will have granted
   seamless entry and translation

which passes on from its origin to
  a new clause -- to end it here, now and pass

over as readable only in the background that is
   an embellishment of absence amongst

things in exclusive continuity, to have this produced
   in space as empirical of absence,

and to punctuate this, a mystification,
or say, acceptable fabrication,

to read and extricate as acceptance of an absence
   as form: this poem that is not a poem but

only a physicality delimited -- to speculate
and study
as disbelief, and to have done such simply

demystification of its transition.
A deconstruction as evidence.
M Vogel Jan 28

You need the kind of real that in its utter realness..
becomes a living form of fantasy

Something so real that it spells out  the word

    "Unreal"
     in everything that it does and says..

A reality  that is in  perpetuality,
               a forever-living fantasy


There is a condition of the heart, mind and spirit,
that is truly able to do that.
Nothing is lost within the process;

   And everything there ever was within it..
   becomes its own beautiful form of Gain


xox
Adam Sep 2016
LSD
The reason on this trip we came
was to forget about superficial dames
chasing money and fame

Our senses piercing through the veils of reality
stuck in a vortex of time and perpetuality
questioning the true nature of reality.

Seeing things for more than what they seem
like how rain resembles life’s intricate themes
and our union, God’s great schemes

Forget the scientific name
and what love looks like conventionally
for LSD means love, serendipity, and dreams
Saugat Upadhyay Jun 2015
Here it rains,
and the drops runs through the heart,
makes it cool and chills through the veins,
It touches your eye lashes and your lips,
makes it wet and a glimpse of kiss perfect,
the drops touches your body and makes it more beautiful,
from the inner perpetuality there comes an essence,
an essence of love which unites two soul and hearts,
sparks the love and lets it flow,
revives and connects with a touch of inner glow.
It is there,
Under the splendid sun unweathered,
The moon lights Kindle and rekindle,
Under the stars stuck in repentance,
Unlike their perpetuality,
It is there,
The urge to redraw myself,
Into the reflection of others perfection,
To be spun in accordance to what lies,
behind those shallow eyes,
My complexity beyond compare,
Not sincere,
Am I the art or the painter?
Because I destroy myself so beautifully,
A symphony sung and unsung all at once,
Broken cords that heal themselves whole.
swaggmaster Feb 2019
head bound with desire to pop
end it all or show everyone
what they're missing out


the feeling of perpetuality
bubbling until I cease to have the strength to
pull myself out of the hole again

existentialism
clawing
with relentless intent
to handicap my well being

it asks me what for
why wouldnt you just show yourself the door
and let it all unfurl

no no no
you must wait for the great
when you focus
you chose this
you know what has to be done




if you force yourself to do something enough eventually you'll start doing it
Sujan Feb 2020
The glistening glare of dawn,
Dampens my view,
My eyes are all blurry,
Yet I seem to see it all.

The hollow shell that I am,
Fondled with the color of dawn,
Seem to find myself yet again,

The perpetuality of dawn,
And its evenness,
Makes me jealous and nonchalant,
Yet I seem to sense nought.

I find myself thinking yet again,
All these moments are irreproducible.
I wonder when I said this before

— The End —