"perturbed" poems
The gilded opening is terse and with age defined,
Locking away the pathway from a golden mind,
Hairlike roots of tiny letters form a braid,
Ficus-ing along stretching prongs of Purple and Jade,
Pushing they gather and spider around its ovate curves,
occasioning sprouts from cracks lips perturbed,
grammarized rain fertilizing delicate pods of flesh,
blossoming frosty lemon blooms of T's R's come to rest,
The bunched words hanging, dangling like grapes, of frailty,
dipping on fickle branches barely holding on to reality,
threatening to fall like daggered swords,
But alas are some silently whispered Jamaican words
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
***** clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
I am
Eternally exasperated
Frequently frustrated
Incessantly irate
Perpetually perturbed
Awfully ambivalent
Forever fickle
Frustratingly finnicky
Laconicly labile
Madly mercurial
Virulently volatile
And every other ******* adverb, adjective alliteration
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
Mad
Angry and disturbed
Perturbed by your absurd words
Their rhythm ring sing songs on & on
Wrongly depicting me as the beast who depletes we
Condemned and prosecuted for convoluted convictions
Incarcerated despite fair trial meanwhile
Defendant roams free, though guilty
So I suffer when her rough mood cannot bebuffered
And somehow the blame is on me, what a shame it would be
If I had a fair trial, and you were beguiled by my vengeance
But Corinthians bestowed on me that love hold no grudge
So I won't budge,
This time.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
...and she wears black-belt of solid
endurance, around her soul.
Because, she was born in pain city;
She's never perturbed by their
pettiness and rumor mongering attitude.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
The complexity of coupling is an exponential increase.
No matter how perturbed life may be, we strive to linearize it,
thank you Laplace. You transform us.
It is integral to simplify life.
Like Da Vinci, Like Thoreau:
“Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication”
“Our life is frittered away by detail…simplify, simplify”
Let us not differentiate between the good or the bad
the high or the low.
Life is too brief to quantify, qualify, and compare it to others.
It is yours alone. Embrace the change over time.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
C'mon out to the rattled caves
the deep-sea malaise
rested in the grey metamorphs
of an ancient coastal chain
Where Sisyphean slips of tectonic rifts
pull the molding clay
like play-dough
and old rock that turns anew
churned into
great catacomb stele
Babylonian towers far away
from the great
Mesopotamic
interstate
Surrounded by the immumerous trees
the military sharpness of their pine
quills writing their mark in the dirt
for a hundred turns or so
only to be rearranged
into the great intercontinental soil
Truly
multisolipsistual
And on the aggregate
held open the mists
of the vast expanse of ocean
beyond L.A
and stole the fruits of the tiny parceled condominium rainwater
from distance far away
angry men shouting--
"Give us back our life blood, GOD **** YOU!"
Filling the tanks of their fleshomobiles
running around and sweating it out
trading it for cloth and wiping their brow on
brown shirts
perturbed and disobeyed
But that great man with the chin muscatche
brought the rough riders out of their dome
into the frontier, riding trains
Off they go!
Seeking paradise in the sands
and the trees
and the coastal breeze
dreaming
of a world owned and seen
by the world
by man
and by all these things
It would be grand
But that rock has been seen before
in Luarentian islands long ago
or perhaps a great FUJI-SAN of the west coast
worshiped by critters and dinosaurs
You are late to the game, sweet dreamers, you!
These monuments give to honor due
not you,
no sir did you build these things?
did you mold these things
with the patience of a father
with the consequentiality
of the womb
and a motherly affection
for all things true?
the gift is for you,
remember your father's gifts
sweet princes of the earth
because they will outlive you.
And I walk along the stream
stepping upon these little bits of Yosemite
Pulverized mountain rocks
Renal Stones of the diseased
to which the water flushed out deeply
and cured the grey things from all that left them
displeased
hoping for more than just selfies
and sticking it to god's face
laughing at half-dome
climbing it and getting the better of ourselves
Believing we have achieved bliss
When in reality,
there is nothing to this which we can reach.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 5:19 PM UTC
"Sadness is a place?" The heart questioned the brain.
"Sometimes." Answered the brain knowingly. "Sometimes, it's' a place for dwindling."
"--So when is it not a place?" asked the heart in a perturbed manner.
"When it's no longer needed, it will cease to exist." Replied the brain.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
I hate looking at you.
You are so strikingly beautiful
And so viciously ugly
When I see you, you lock your eyes with mine and give me a devilish smile
You tilt your head forward
You’re trying too hard
I want to scream
**** you
Hurt you at the very least
Punch you right in your beautiful ugly face
I laugh to try to make you stop
But inside, I collapse.
Please, please stop looking at me.
You’re piercing right through my ugly, sexless body
Right into my nervous, teenage soul
You are so beyond me
I hate you for that.
I’ll always hate you for that
I know you feel superior to me
I know you use me
I know you take comfort in my cynical, society depreciating, feminist convictions
My mumbling garbage of sadness
I know you think I’m smart
but at the same time pathetic
I know that you want me
Because you think you can have everything
I know you need me
Like you need anyone
Because you can’t stand to be alone.
Yes, I know you can’t stand to be alone.
Your wretched body that you toss around like an object
All in a vain attempt to be wanted
But you still end up alone.
You aren’t what you think you are
What you want to be
So don’t you look down on me like that
With your practiced sultriness
I say all these things in my laugh
But you’re oblivious
You look away smiling
Like you’ve won something
I collapse inside
I want to crumple
I’m too tired for violence
Too sad
So I just sit on your couch
Perturbed by the silence
Even when I hate you most
I’m afraid of what you imagine of me in the silence.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
all of
America’s
gubmint hatin
yahoos, pining
to get their
country back,
should grab
yer rifles, stock
up on ammo
and giddy up
down to Texas
to join the
secessionists
headin out
of the Union
Rick Perry
promises to
keep his promise
to close all the
gubmint departments
he can't remember
the names of
Ron Paul will
finally be liberated
from the tyranny
of his federal
paycheck and
can return to
his district to
practice medicine
unencumbered
by the acceptance
of medicare
payments
Ted Cruz will
move to coronate
his Cuban born
daddy as Viceroy
for life of the
western hemispheres
newest banana
republic
the last act of
of the Compartment
of Education will be
to turn every
public school
into a Holy Ghostin
Jehovah meetin
house
Judicial magistrates
will criminalize
poor people
or just make
them slaves
and all prisons
will be turned
into profit driven
plantations,
overseen by
the local
Sheriffs who
will be paid
time and a
half and 15%
of all profits
unfortunately
the Cowboy’s
will lose it’s
moniker as
America’s Team
if rattlesnake
booted
Jerry Jones
can’t make a
deal to turn
his stadium
into a sovereign
independent
territory as a
protectorate
of the USA
To assure
national purity
Texans will
build a Jericho
style wall to
define the boundaries
of their heavenly
kingdom and outlaw
all trumpet playing
within earshot
of their perturbed
borders
The Eyes of
Texas as the
state anthem
will need to
be reworded
The final stanza
will be changed
to "Until Gabriel
blows his nose"
keepin the ungodly
out and the chosen
people safely
insulated within
the shining
Lone Star State
will rise again
as a solitary
confederacy
of dunces
Music Selection:
The Eyes of Texas
Oakland
11/18/13
jbm
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Birds in cages are immortalized in poetry,
in wordy melancholy and round top cages beside
windows tauntingly open to the mountains, the
earthy smell of wheat and the breezy ocean air.
Hundreds of perturbed human eyes press close against brass,
mooning with open mouths and dry lips
cooing baby-talk bird-calls in hope of a
crying return, like a blessing,
or a soft forgiveness.
Outside,
Lovebirds are doves and songbirds.
They commune with owls and storks
and perch on branches, all the better to coo
and cry to the loving, glowing moon.
Anger, jealousy, and fright are all stones. They are heavy
and they have no place in the bellies of skybirds.
Caged birds have jealousy and clipped wings,
brass bars bent into tiny atmospheres, but canaries
carry bile in their beaks, beady black eyes watching
changing seasons with singing spite.
I am and have always been a swallow,
all creamy white belly and a thousand
creeping kinds of brown.
I wish to stay up, up for a thousand hours
in the realm of thought. In your thoughts,
I wish to be the voice whispering stories to you
from inside your precious head, curved
lovingly above me like an unending sky.
I am wings and feathers and I am full of things
that I desire much much more than air.
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
In a world of laughter
I was apart of at a time
Now glides with sadness
As the refugees shine
And there in the darkness
I can see someone's face
Wholesome with fear
In deliberate disgrace
Find the world's end
And summon the flees
Through the fires and cries
Lies this appealing disease
Of rotten flesh
And from human, to be born
Crucified, embodied, concealed
And still so adorn
Notify the states
Address them assured
To be swept with the scars
In a world unsecured
With the memories of a beast
White flesh and teeth
In written disconcert
And so, whom would I bequeath?
Of decayed discontent
In a black path of a rose filled garden
Hides the wishes of a ******
Broken by the pervading Janardhan
And where the blood may spill
I may not be for real
And in this nightmare I place myself
But where I stand my eyes congeal
Broken faces, smiles depart
So much love, ruled by lust
So much hate, driven by anger
Asphyxiate my disgust
My repel of this utter evil
Where a ****** proclaims
The absence of virtues
And the murderer of William James
For the only unseen
And the utterly disturbed
Comes a vision alive
And they're truly perturbed
Where their own flesh dilapidate
With their minds running amuck
And at everyone they will berate
And in my cage of silent betrayal
I will commence to cleanse my soul
My solid trust, broken, forever damaged
I can only hope for extol
And yet my own deceit
Will lead me to my fall
I still await this day
And truly bury my appall
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 5:19 PM UTC
Welcome my Princess! Oh Heavens,
For the queen of my heart
Is about to offer to nature
Her complete beauty of Africa,
Give her the Kente cloth
In its rich, natural and splendid array,
And offer her newborn feet with
The golden sandals and diamond beads,
Behold! There she descends from the
Unapproachable eternal flames of the sun,
With the divine firmament
Fizzling at her flammable tune,
See how the precious fragrant branches
Of the clouds covers her lovely feet,
For the clouds have gathered and there is
Nothing more to expect but the storm,
Oh yes, I have found a ****** woman,
The beauty among the daughters of great men,
Whose eyes are as brilliant as the star
And as delightful as a sugarcane;
Behold, her face is as bright as palm wine;
Her hair sleeps like a slender thread,
And her stature is as that of a pawpaw tree,
She is called Obaahemaa Kabutuwaa
And truly she is Rasses Kabutuwaa
Whose eyes are those of the faithful dove,
Truly, Kabutuwaa whose
Gods is like that of bees,
Slim, black and full of sweetness,
Truly, Kabutuwaa is obedient and wise,
Truly, Kabutuwaa for whom
All men felt love in their hearts!
Come! Oh my unveiled one,
And expose thy soft and loamy face,
For the nations shall seek and
Behold thy enviable eternal beauty,
Ah, the proud effeminate shadow of Africa,
Please show the angelic face of
Thy love to my perturbed soul,
For thou art an African ****** indeed.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
A perturbed philosoper perches precariously atop a pedestal, preaching in poetic prose of the pernicious pitfalls of man's avowal to avarice; as a braindead banker bellows "BUY BONDS!" and boasts boisterously of his brand new Bugatti.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
I’m not sure what implored me to put the picture as my centerfold.
Of that I’m sure I’ll never know.
Instead, I just did. No questions asked.
Though the picture had always perturbed me in a slight, quiet way, it was something that my father prided enough.
Why should I not pride it as well?
Besides, my wife said it really “tied the room together”.
I told her that I still didn’t understand that phrase,
But that’s neither here nor there.
Every day, I passed that painting on the way out the door,
And on the way back in to the heart of my home.
My wife and I embraced a multitude of times
in front of our deer-headed ******
In his suit, painted onto that canvas, framed with gold leaf
That shined just so, when the sun hit it.
And I’ll always remember that my father left it for me
When he died.
Me specifically.
I inherited the deer head, and the body of a businessman.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
I won't call you perfect
nobody's close to that
I'm not gonna drown you in affection
I won't resort to that
but when you stand in front of me
It'd be hard not to notice
You're fragrance is amazing constantly
your eyes sparkle like jewels
your hair is glossy, perfect even in a mess
you stand there seemingly so blessed
others simply can't contest
I'm not saying you're an angel
however angelic is quite close
not a better word that I could find
I'm looking, searching, lost
then I find my closest friend
I like her quite a bit
I'm not sure how she will react to all this sweet and sappy stuff
I'm sure she'll like the compliments
they are what she deserves
even though she leaves me
emotionally perturbed
this part is probably the worst
most just call it the end
meaning that there's no more words
to describe
The
Pultrichude
Of
My
Friend
<3
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 3:03 AM UTC
the nature of a woman is pain
she lives in silence
not a nail in sole would rouse her
she is not perturbed
but you will believe it
so she won't make a sound
for her voice is deafening
billowing with accusations and slander
how could woman not be happy in her confinement?
she is exactly how she should be
when she is small, mute, and most of all unremarkable
no woman should have the gall to look a man deep in his eye
if not without her clothes
so keep your head down *****
or you will be dealt with
man has the power
the strength
the resources and
the will
to take you
to **** you
to **** you
learn now and in earnest
lest your beauty or pride dissuade you
from finding your place in this world
Jan 15, 2023
Jan 15, 2023 at 11:23 PM UTC
silence
sweet silence
like none other
despite the library door
slamming everytime
someone leaves or arrives
it seems to slam louder
when they leave
i am not perturbed
or distracted, nor am i
expecting not to be
here, alone, surrounded by books,
i just am
lamenting this place not being
as busy
as it should be
who’s fault is that?
celebrating this place not being
as busy
as it should be
guilty as charged
all these faces i see
it’s like a small town here
sometimes abandoned
sometimes inhabited
once again,
i don’t care
how can i?
my head, full of
Aurelius and Bukowski
doesn’t have space to
well, deep down,
i guess i do care
but not as much as
i suppose society begs i
should
how can i?
i’m too busy figuring out
who i truly am
and the books help, Bukowski
was correct, these philosophers are
like brothers to me and i speculate
my deep “connection” to them
to men whom i never met
yet felt more fatherly care from
than my own
maybe that’s the root
sometimes, all this reading begs the question
do i like books
more than people?
or people more
than books?
i think i know the answer,
eureka!
i love books, and individuals alike
i don’t like people
especially when they group up
in congregations and crowds,
strangers in a
can of sardines
with no space to possibly
ever care
only to survive and barely breathe
or to escape such a reality
how could i?
when they don’t
even care for themselves
it’s disheartening, really
to witness such potential
in one soul
and watch it *******
melt away
around his or her friends
around their families’
incessant influence and needs
abusing providers
consumed by their personal troubles and struggles
and vices, infected by the amplification of
a hang out
girls night
boys night
the clubs, the bars
the gossips of nonsense and ****
that simply isn’t their business
sewage
their obvious and yet
radiantly painful,
like a sunburn that isn’t on you
but hurts to look at on someone else,
avoidance of themselves
begging the following:
could these souls spend
an hour, alone, with a book
and paper and pencil?
how could they?
they’d like to, i’m sure,
but hate themselves just enough
to not be able to.
-melancholicreator
Feb 27, 2024
Feb 27, 2024 at 4:30 PM UTC
i try to fall asleep to the sound of atmospheric tones and rain
yet nothing can seem to dull the pain
of what i've always felt for you
what i'll always feel for you,
don't tell me this **** isn't new for you
too
i try to fall asleep to the sound of atmospheric tones and rain
but my mind remains
disturbed
i think i am quite
perturbed
i fell asleep to the sound of atmospheric tones and rain
my mind quietly hiber-
nates
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
When questioned what was nature,
i laughingly said s&m;
ravishing red roses thorns were meant for torture
but some indulge in them
Misunderstood poison ivy is
for her dark and seductive touch
leaving her victims perturbed with the faintest brush
shunned by the hollies for her dark and twisted roots
she finds solace in clandestiny
where she indulges in sinful truths
But if the darker side of nature
is perceived as such a sin
and on one hot july night the forest shall ignite
i’ll let the fickle flames fade into me
because the smell of burning saffron can be quite alright
Nature is a playground
and we dabble in different mounds
often forgetting the vines
that are to hold us down
to submit or not to submit
let ivy tell you
for one
false
move
the
vines
will
bruise
you
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Symphonic
My fist was first five fingers
Flowing Favonian into the palm of my radiant mother
As cheeky as a sprite, soon I revelled in the
Crisp light of the fridge and all its chilled visitors,
A skin-deep draft last week, a raging harmattan yesterday,
Barren among the fruitless lands of Mesopotamia.
Crawling, my sergeants and I led the way through our childhood fantasies.
Ali Baba's fortress, the ruins of Babylon, and up to the lately perturbed Euphrates.
I dropped my automatic rifle,
hurriedly snatched it up in the unforgiving desolate,
just in time to
narrowly dodge the absent onslaught of enemy gunfire
Only to witness a serpentine strike and an explosive splash
Of metal violating my infantile hand, a hand that was trusted and was caressed
Now merely a bludgeon to satisfy the steel-clawed slash of the shrapnel
A buffer to the skin of my wide-eyed physiognomy.
Waking up in the loose sheets of a completely unremarkable beige bed,
With the deoxygenated breath of the novice surgeon liquidizing in my veins,
It was almost too much to handle (if you'll pardon my pun).
These days it is
The good hand with which I
Uncork, pour, and serve.
It's with the utilizable limb with which I
Ignite, shift, and steer.
It's with my brain that I
seethe
And it's with my stump
That I knock.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
a poem for the perturbed
partially peeved
marginally miffed
indirectly disturbed
not for those in love
not for loss or for longing
not for the haughty highbrow
half hazardly happy saps
that drown you in their
dizzily delerious
words about joy and wonder
this poem is for the average joe
joe sixpac joe normal
kicked back, laid back
ignoble informal
working class
pain in the ***
foul mouthed, burnout
college drop out
that doesn't have two
sweet words to rub together
this poem is for me
and you... if you want it.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
*Is out there on our own lovely streets
In the souls of those the world mistreats
In the roughing waves threatening to wash us all
In the despondence of the **** victim's unanswered call
It's that long journey without a clear destination
It's the desperate cries in the broken heart of every nation
The heartbreak caused with no intention
It's the one without an answer,I mean the question
War is that desperate pregnant teenager attempting abortion
It's the *** slave in a foreign country up for auction
It's the slum child fighting with the bursting river banks
It's in the mind of the soldiers riding tanks
Doing what they can to rise up the ranks
And evade taking more innocent lives in mega chunks
It's the hopeless immigrants drowning on the mediteranean
It's the nuclear threatened Iraqees and Iranians
It's a *** hole forcing the driver to swerve and lose control
It's the tears of the fishermen catching nothing for days in their trawl
It's the worries in that littl'un fearing darkness
The priest's daily prayer,battling temptation, human weakness
War is another name for the famine eating the tribes in the arid north
It's the thought of a refugee mother whose child's got stunted growth
It isn't the opposite but the total absence of peace
It's a robber who loots everything, including bliss
It's a nightmare to the leader stuck in a seat
And the zealous opposition unaware of his inner heat
It's a hustle by the team which can't admit defeat
It's the struggle of an accident victim trying to regain his feet
It's in the believer's hope to see Jesus return tomorrow
Right before the entire globe sinks in ****** sorrow
It's the worries of a father who's spent his entire adult life unemployed
The uncertainty for a recruit in a war zone,just deployed
War is the puzzled gambler pondering suicide when he loses the little he borrows
It's the pastor wondering wether or not to dive in and save the drowning morals
War is that person perturbed, wondering why the hell he was created
War is all the choices you made and regretted
War is a three letter word,with a long meaning
Which some say is the only reason the globe is spinning*
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC