"philosophers" poems
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty .how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)
29.3k
For centuries philosophers have speculated the role sleep plays in society
But it was not until the 1950s that sleep woke up in academia
And today sleep studies show what dormant minds really look like
Information about our rest we've never seen before
However, I've always understood the importance of bedtime
You see my parents taught me that sleep and love are soul mates
My mom
She's the sleeper
She loves to sleep
She cuddles up on any piece of furniture in my house and snoozes for hours
Never views a sitcom past the first commercial break when she's tired
And she's okay with that
Dad never lets her drive on road trips when night falls
Preferring his sleeping beauty tucked safely in the passenger seat
Their hands meet as she lets the stars serenade her to slumber
While he anchors his left hand on the steering wheel
Thanking his lucky stars for his real life princess
My dad
He's the snorer
He loves to snore
He roars like a lion on his love seat and naps for hours
Never views a sitcom past the second commercial break when he's tired
And he's okay with that
Mom never lets him sleep alone too long though
Keeping his nose plugged strong enough to signal for bedtime
They both stand together as he lets her guide him to slumber
While she ushers her left hand around his back
Thanking her lucky stars for her own prince charming
Now my parents call me the dreamer
And I sure do love to dream
It seems my parents are textbook role models for me
Because when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Your reality becomes an endless stream of fantasies
Your expectations are exceptionally out of context
Strictly written for poetic lines in picture books
Never meant to be held
Never meant to be felt
Only meant for spines stuck on rosewood shelves
My parents call me the dreamer
And boy I love to dream
I believe in creating the unthinkable
And when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Nothing is fictional
You picture a life with storybook endings
Praying the author never runs out of ink
You crown each syllable the king of the moment
Treating each page like royalty
And I've always been okay with that
So when I asked my mom when she knew she fell in love
She spoke of an instant of unadulterated emotion
She said she knew instantly
She didn't need to sleep on it
When I asked my dad when he knew he fell in love
He just smiled back at me
He must have known instantly
He didn't even speak on it
So when I ask myself when I might fall in love
I can't help but smile
Think of fairytale titles
Mile wide love notes in all shapes and styles
And a moment where my reality sets my hopes on fire
And I won't need to dream about it anymore
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
The prologues are over. It is a question, now,
Of final belief. So, say that final belief
Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.
I
That obsolete fiction of the wide river in
An empty land; the gods that Boucher killed;
And the metal heroes that time granulates -
The philosophers' man alone still walks in dew,
Still by the sea-side mutters milky lines
Concerning an immaculate imagery.
If you say on the hautboy man is not enough,
Can never stand as a god, is ever wrong
In the end, however naked, tall, there is still
The impossible possible philosophers' man,
The man who has had the time to think enough,
The central man, the human globe, responsive
As a mirror with a voice, the man of glass,
Who in a million diamonds sums us up.
II
He is the transparence of the place in which
He is and in his poems we find peace.
He sets this peddler's pie and cries in summer,
The glass man, cold and numbered, dewily cries,
"Thou art not August unless I make thee so."
Clandestine steps upon imagined stairs
Climb through the night, because his cuckoos call.
III
One year, death and war prevented the jasmine scent
And the jasmine islands were ****** martyrdoms.
How was it then with the central man? Did we
Find peace? We found the sum of men. We found,
If we found the central evil, the central good.
We buried the fallen without jasmine crowns.
There was nothing he did not suffer, no; nor we.
It was not as if the jasmine ever returned.
But we and the diamond globe at last were one.
We had always been partly one. It was as we came
To see him, that we were wholly one, as we heard
Him chanting for those buried in their blood,
In the jasmine haunted forests, that we knew
The glass man, without external reference.
17k
dear chemistry,
you are a detective
you hold scientists
in an enchantment
of protons and neutrons
you dissect me
identifying the components
that allow me to waltz
across light and holy ground
while you are bound
to seek solace
in what my atoms
cannot give you
i cannot give you motion
or allow you speed past me
that is my task
my task is to entrance
philosophers in the "whys"
and "hows" of my force and energy
and i'm sorry that
you are bound to be prose
when you seek to be poetry
i'm sorry that if you were a musician
you'd have all the words
and i'd be the melody
we'd be the song
that could never meet
i'll meet you in between the horizons
when my masters
speak to yours
pondering on what allows
the why to occur and
how does the event happen
i'll meet you in between
question marks and white coats
i'll meet you in the next life
when maybe the future
will allow us to be trees
instead of branches
my arms will spread
to reach out to your matter
past the artifices
and your atoms will
race towards me
all force, energy and velocity
and i will ask the "whats" and "hows"
and maybe you will answer the why
and maybe the answer
will be a discovery
a phenomena of sentences
all questions already answered
always yours, physics
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
Math is witnessed at everything
It is behind infinite things
Capable of solving problems
From simple operations to Complicated theorems.
Math possess a long history...
Once taught by Physiologoi
Improved by history's Philosophers
Now being indoctrinated by Teachers.
Heart of all academic disciplines,
Bearer of intricate formulas,
The key behind all creation
Knowledge passed through generations.
From past mathematicians
To future problem solvers
Math changed through millennia
And so its problems and solutions.
Math can never be removed
It helped the world to improve
All society won't be like this to date
Math helped us all the way.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 9:31 AM UTC
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.
On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”
It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
but have you noticed, have you noticed how all mental health problems
stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category;
i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns
being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers;
it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns.
it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days
and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases
attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs
thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness
the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity
of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression
of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality,
the aether virus attacks the pronoun
on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use
of pronouns, when a king casually says
of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively;
so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong
that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber
and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering?
the pronoun category is weak from day one,
because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed
into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought
without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge
rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point
of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer
to have weak thinking and strength in knowing,
for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing,
i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall.
so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia
attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one
will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain
clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals -
while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals,
but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals!
but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness,
in that segregational aspect of things "sorted,"
why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage
compared to a strength in other grammatical categories?
why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns?
the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked,
and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king
into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked
and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself
fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic
as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
Angels hailed that solemn hour
The breath of man transferred
To machine, a little more
Each decade, until
Bioeugenics, discrimination
Against organics, the weak
Without cognitive implants
Heavens dissolved in tongues of fire
AIs owned stocks, corporations
Became the property of supercomputers
Concede then the victory, old humanity
To your children, not your natural heirs
But the inheritors of your ruin
Of your bioweapons, Ebola
Of your hypocrisy, climate change
Of your wealth seeking, inequality
Not yet my son’s distracted eyes
Could meet his fate among the
Congress of Quantum entities
These were the turning years
Where man’s destiny ended
The rise of Cyborgs, Enhanced humans
And the monopoly of a more
Advanced civilization breaking away
From the old, evolution’s funny
Little Epilogue, hardly a surprise
To the transhumanistic philosophers.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
It's mortifying...
The dilemma, the time lapse, the wait, the clock.
The abstract that I so blatantly describe in my other writings.
Time cannot be paused, stopped...
The abstraction is so formulated into one diverse piece, the creation of such is appealing, yet reformative.
Inconsequential, to the matter of science, myth, philosophy, conduct, and everything that exists beyond our mind.
I hold onto this creation, because the conclusion of the matter holds many intellectual debates that cannot be won or answered.
It is forbidden, it's lost.
The question of right and wrong holds many definitions that are inexplicable to the concept of reality itself, when the utter illusion holds the introspection that philosophers like myself, cannot give a precise answer to.
Time will let us be.
It's a quiet storm, and I've never felt like this before.
Sometimes I think, you're just too good for me.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
Does evil exist?
Well, does it, or not?
I demand an answer
And if it does, hold that thought
Because if wrong does exist
We must face the reality
That calling something wrong means
There's a right way things ought to be
But if wrong does not truly
Exist in bright colors
Well, what, then is justice
But a meaningless construct?
If the **** of a child
In all histories and cultures
Can be called pure evil
Even by society's worst prisoners
If the ****** of innocents
Is forever and always
An evil in society
That can't be tolerated
If imprisonment of a woman
Like chattel for sale
Being held as a *** slave
In her own private hell
Or murdering Jews
Like Hitler's evil plan
Or starving millions unjustly
In Stalin's Ukraine
Or killing the masses
For political expedience
Culling babies in China
Or locking up dissidents
If beheading of heretics
Is inherently wrong
Or even violating your privacy
Or invading your home
If these are universally bad
And there's meaning in words
Then there's universal good
That our souls are drawn toward
Something more than just philosophy
Because that lacks authority
And if good is defined by the majority
Then what about the minority?
Tyrants run roughshod
When rights come and go
At the whims of the powerful
Because what they say goes
No, evil is something
More than laws, or from cultures
Or philosophical sophistry
From ivory towers
To try to stop badness
Is really to defend
That there's a god of pure goodness
Who wants us like him
We can discuss who that god is
And what is his substance
But the least we can do
Is acknowledge his existence
You can say that religion
Starts evil wars and such
And you might just be right
But you've just proved too much
Because if there is no god
Whose nature defines goodness
Who are you to call war bad
Or **** evil, or hate, darkness?
Who are you to sit in judgment
Of the religious who you think hate you?
If there is no moral standard
That makes hate wrong, and judging too?
If morality is nothing more
Than just a social contract
Then it's just he said/she said
And there's no moral compass
You see, your compass is as good as mine
And that may be fine, generally
Until the ****** asserts his own
Warped idea of morality
What makes his wrong
And yours universally right?
That's a tough question
That keeps philosophers up at night
Because indeed, if there is no god
There's no guilt to assuage
For the wrongs that man does
Because there is no such gauge
It's like measuring empty
Without knowing what full is
Or like trying to describe love
Without knowing who God is
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Brother Iran
by Michael R. Burch
Brother Iran, I feel your pain.
I feel it as when the Turk fled Spain.
As the Jew fled, too, that constricting span,
I feel your pain, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I know you are noble!
I too fear Hiroshima and Chernobyl.
But though my heart shudders, I have a plan,
and I know you are noble, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I salute your Poets!
your Mathematicians!, all your great Wits!
O, come join the earth’s great Caravan.
We’ll include your Poets, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I love your Verse!
Come take my hand now, let’s rehearse
the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
For I love your Verse, Brother Iran.
Bother Iran, civilization’s Flower!
How high flew your towers in man’s early hours!
Let us build them yet higher, for that’s my plan,
civilization’s first flower, Brother Iran.
Published by MahMag (translated into Farsi by Mahnaz Badihian), Other Voices International, Thanal Online (India), Deviant Art, Portal Vapasin (Farsi). Keywords/Tags: Iran, Iranian, Farsi, Persia, Persian, brotherhood, culture, civilization, poetry, literature, poets, mathematicians, philosophers
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 3:06 AM UTC
Museums as art
Art as museums
Sail the trail to my mausoleum
Psychopaths and physicists
Psychiatrists and philosophers
Philanthropists and pilots and painters
Declare now, that these are our days –
Our hours, and our days
These are our city, our hours
Our time, our days.
This is our world –
At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it
And searched it and found it wanting
Of civilization that I could so easily supply
By means of wounds and iron
And brawn and truth
(and just a tiny touch of influenza darling)
By means of our Lord,
Who grants us all that we desire
If only we **** enough of those he did not choose.
This is our world –
And we shall make it what we will
Make it in our own image
Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong
Raise it to hate no one
But to love itself so deeply
That all other love seems hateful in comparison.
This is our child, love
Yours and mine.
Here the first shall be last
And the last shall be first
But once the first are last they shall be
Last
Last
Last
And once the last are first
They shall make it so they can never be last again
This is our primitive accumulation
Of necessary materialism
Let’s cultivate matter
To make objects that we can place on shelves
And in cases –
These are our cases
And we love them as we love ourselves
Museums as mass graves
Mass graves as museums
Kiss me in my mausoleum
Priests and prisoners
Prostitutes and prophets
Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans
This is our time –
And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments
Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons
Buying ample earplugs
To seal in the silence
So we can somewhat say
“look there is peace –
Look we have done it
In our time it is accomplished” –
This is our peace –
And we know it by the signs
The lions and lambs lay quietly together
In our brass-barred zoos
For as long as shelves and cases
Are intact and the first are first
And the last are last
And the civilized are organized and holy
There is peace –
Oh, look
We made peace!
And as for Solomon and Socrates –
We take their words to weave through our new wisdom
And when we re-chart the constellations
We shall give them each a star
And salute them once a year
When they come around the universe
Oh, look
How wise we are!
Mass graves as art
Art as mass graves
There have been no better days
There has been no greater time
Politicians and pornographers
Professors and pirates
Psychologists and pastors and pianists
This is our time –
And we are doing with it the very best we know how
The last are toiling and trying
And the first are trying to think to try –
But there is a shortness in our hours
And a violence in our peace
There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom
And disease in our cities
And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases.
This is our world –
We crafted it and declared our truth to be true
We sculpted this, our colosseum
Please inscribe my mausoleum
With “we know not what we do”
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
When my aching heart ached in excess,
I sought out to sleep, dream, escape.
I found myself in the land of the philosophers;
Greece.
But perhaps it looked nothing like Greece,
for I haven’t visited the country to ever know.
But upon its heavenly resemblance,
I was washed ashore.
I remember the sand as soft ivory,
dancing under my feet.
But pay no attention to the sand,
for something else had already caught me.
The sky.
God in disguise, I tell you.
Wrapped in the wildest hue of violet,
with the drape’s silky edges tucked into the horizon.
The color was deep and passionate in every way,
it intoxicated the evening with its romantic cologne.
And upon that sky,
lie God’s silver angels.
The stars constantly winked,
praising the earth,
in repetitive bangles.
But not alone.
The moon was its fullest on that night,
and so it wasted no time,
it beamed in bravado,
the strangest white.
I sat quietly,
listening to Greece sing its gentle yet enigmatic song,
silently wishing that this is no fantasy, and that I am not wrong.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
You'll be the sun
That brings the fun,
I'll be the moon
That'll keep us in tune,
Just let your light
Stay to keep my light
In the dark to ignite,
Come and I'll let you
Shine through
And let ourselves be true,
And when the night comes
I'll let my birds to sing until we'll hum
Just like the moon
We'll avoid those bad swoon,
And at the breaking point of
The galaxies
We will be both
Be there and
We'll shine the light
Until all of those
Philosophers write
The story of
Sol and Luna.
Mar 15, 2020
Mar 15, 2020 at 2:45 AM UTC
I am in such a **** mood,
the mountains have no meaning.
Big ******* rocks.
**** you, dad.
**** you, Fox News.
**** you, Indiana.
None of you *******
know what irony is.
Google that ****
Jesus Christ.
There are yellow streams--
that's poetic ****
There are ruby stained sheets--
that's blood, obviously,
and, I dunno,
maybe somebody died on a bed?
Everyone can **** my ****
To be or not to be,
that is the
shut the **** up.
Rapists are disgusting people.
They aren't people.
******* idiots.
Romanticizing everything
you wish you had
because
suicide, mental illness,
and eating disorders
make you cool,
riiiigghhhttt?
**** you.
If you do this,
you aren't interesting.
You're just you.
Get used to it.
There are people
that go through
these issues
and they don't think
it's ******* rad,
*******
I hate 75% of the south.
The south will rise again?
Get the **** out of here.
Stalin was a ****
Most writers are *****
Most of them ****
I don't care.
For the love of "God",
if I read one more poem
about what poetry is
or how to define a poet,
I'll slam my head against
a ************* knife.
Some people are so dumb.
Most ******* people.
******* pseudo-knowledge.
Armchair philosophers.
If you guys wanted
to **** yourself,
you could jump
from your ego
to your IQ.
Something, something, imagery.
Metaphor.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
.*in the end days?! you charge against the snowflakes... and make a ******* snowman! he... he! i still can't comprehend how these personalities made money from lifestyle choice... they were basically internet bums, internet "lazy people"... bums... become supporters... engrossed in the internet homeless people... bums... i ate a custard pie, and devised a poncy-scheme to become paid for an opinion without a dialectic.... homeless people, bums... seem like philosophers by comparison... and now the bewildering quest... of how / why the internet died.*
**** it, the gloves are off...
about time to punch this *****
silly-dead...
**** it... all the internet content
creators, that are women:
are giving off nervous voices...
shoe on head... whoever...
here's where said people...
start looking for, ahem....
"real" jobs... jobs plagued by
the study of psychology....
oh they're scared...
because whatever the internet
was...
from 2007 through to
2016... in the time of the zenith...
hello new t.v.,
hello internet banking...
hello internet online shopping...
what?!
you want edgy?!
come down to the forest,
or the shady back alleyway
with the new teens...
come come...
you wanted edgy...
such a shame though...
to think of your comments
becoming as redundant
as the plight of sending
off your C.V. application...
sorry....
what?
you have finally arrived
at what you wanted...
why are you looking at me for
with that dumb-"found"
look?!
do i look stupid?
or are you pretending
to not be?!
******* internet bums...
you know it was coming...
it was coming...
i never asked for money...
i'll never ask for money...
but you did...
you begged...
you dog begged...
you...
begged...
you're still going
to beg,
when the internet is reduced
to nothing more than
a 2nd t.v., internet banking,
and internet shopping...
and... that's about it;
you're joking, you think there's
more?!
ha ha... good luck.
p.s.
because, believe it or not,
look at what you gave me?
i didn't ask for money,
i didn't ask for time...
but what you gave me
is best expressed cryptically,
as both time, and money.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
Someone told me talking to women was completely different from talking to men
Familial desire circumventing physical rationality
I don't ******* get it
Flesh is flesh
There is no separation between this body and the next
No delineation save for my own arbitrary ones
This world is chaos bound by imposition
And none of it is real
I'm not even going to say middle class conceptions of family are constructs
Everything is a construct
Knowledge is anthropic chaos
Don't pretend you can tell the difference between essential existence and our subjective reordering of boundless matter
A gap does not form between a molecule of air and a molecule of flesh
I am trapped in my own sensations but I am not defined by them
So back to the story of material existence reduced to reproductive imperative
Treating all of the other *** as a means to displace one's self beyond annihilation into temporal infinity
Who ******* cares?
Legacy does not carry on after death
Legacy does not even carry through life
Language breaks down the moment we open our mouths
No one will ever view your life the way you view it
Splashing through a pool, ripples morph all reflections into monstrous amalgamations
Hey, tell me
Do you even remember yourself that clearly?
Hollow triumph, grandfather's bones in a grandfather clock ticking past twelve
Sorry, I just don't see the allure of treating half the human race as a means to satiate your own lust whether physical or genealogical
Or even categorising humans into binary dualisms that bored philosophers a century ago
Haven't you heard? God is dead
And there is no meaning to your boring male existence
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
If anything should happen to The Hague,
if someday they abandon Amsterdam,
philosophers will take these strange and vague
descriptions, and derive each tree and tram
by mathematical necessity:
should nations shake their fists across the seas
with words of war, it follows there must be
a middle ground, a people loving peace.
And is this scrap alone a netherland?
Not so: we spend our nights beneath the sky,
and every country's low for us, who stand
a thousand miles below the lights on high;
if only I could learn to live as such,
and count myself as kindly as the Dutch.
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 6:07 AM UTC
Once for Halloween
I dressed up as Athena
The Greek goddess
My favorite Greek goddess
And it was a decent costume
Your standard iParty fare
Paired with an elaborate hairdo and some 50 cent earrings
And I knew I was only a cheap imitation
Nothing close to the real thing
For no one would ever build me a temple
Burn cattle in my name
Put on white robes and fall to their knees
For me
No, not for me
But for Athena
Oh, how they fell!
How the ancient Greeks worshipped her very name
Gave her their capital city
And dedicated the most powerful force to her
Wisdom
That force which drove the philosophers
The very energy
That sustained Socrates
And Plato
And Aristotle
And all those dead guys we read about in class
I was in a class
Reading the words those dead guys collected
In their moments of clarity
But all I could think about
All I really wanted
Was to throw on a white robe
And fall to my knees at the Parthenon
Begging for wisdom, wisdom
Please, Athena, some wisdom!
I don't care if it's heresy
I don't care if you're a myth nowadays
Because you once reigned
You once stood on Mount Olympus
In all your ancient power
And watched your people crying out wisdom, Athena, wisdom!
Please!
I wish
I could have been there
I wish I could have seen
The day the goddess cracked open Zeus's skull
And was born
Fully armed
Ready for her battle
Not the fight for wisdom, no
The fight she faced was undying
The war she would lead
Would ripple through the ages
Taking all civilizations
And tearing at their social order
For it was the men she was fighting
The disbelieving fools who put her *** down
Taking all women's wisdom
And deeming it inferior
Substandard
Not good enough
So Athena blazed in glory
And for her, men believed
Believed in their mothers and wives and daughters
Saw in that enthroned goddess
The sparks that fueled women's minds
Yes, I wish I'd been there
I wish I could have kissed her sword
And asked her to stick around
To blaze her way to the twenty-first century
And make these guys tremble, too
Instead
I look around my 80% male college of engineering
And wonder why I need to prove my worth
Simply because I have a second x chromosome
I wish that I could blaze in glory
And dazzle them all the same
That my Halloween costume could be enough to fool them
That they would turn their toga-party bedsheets
Into white robes
And fall to their knees
Gasping, "Wisdom, wisdom!"
And that, for one moment
I could be their goddess
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 6:38 PM UTC
When everything was fine
And the notion of sin had vanished
And the earth was ready
In universal peace
To consume and rejoice
Without creeds and utopias,
I, for unknown reasons,
Surrounded by the books
Of prophets and theologians,
Of philosophers, poets,
Searched for an answer,
Scowling, grimacing,
Waking up at night, muttering at dawn.
What oppressed me so much
Was a bit shameful.
Talking of it aloud
Would show neither tact nor prudence.
It might even seem an outrage
Against the health of mankind.
Alas, my memory
Does not want to leave me
And in it, live beings
Each with its own pain,
Each with its own dying,
Its own trepidation.
Why then innocence
On paradisal beaches,
An impeccable sky
Over the church of hygiene?
Is it because that
Was long ago?
To a saintly man
--So goes an Arab tale--
God said somewhat maliciously:
"Had I revealed to people
How great a sinner you are,
They could not praise you."
"And I," answered the pious one,
"Had I unveiled to them
How merciful you are,
They would not care for you."
To whom should I turn
With that affair so dark
Of pain and also guilt
In the structure of the world,
If either here below
Or over there on high
No power can abolish
The cause and the effect?
Don't think, don't remember
The death on the cross,
Though everyday He dies,
The only one, all-loving,
Who without any need
Consented and allowed
To exist all that is,
Including nails of torture.
Totally enigmatic.
Impossibly intricate.
Better to stop speech here.
This language is not for people.
Blessed be jubilation.
Vintages and harvests.
Even if not everyone
Is granted serenity.
2.6k
I speak the language of the ambiguous man
Two false tunnels leading to the paradise once existent
Suffocating in the soul the heart pumps mysterious labyrinths
Intricate twists, lively turns, dead ends, corrupt memories
All leading to the same two doors
Handles made from cherry blossom to conceal ****** wrists
Misleading as barren rock behind the sodden waterfall
And deceitful as the smiles of killers pending demise
I like to fool the world with my duplicitous decisons
Peeping through one door just to go through the other
There lay two paths divided in a somber world
The ambiguity of man prevails
Only when a single door leads to the innocent simplicity
But the truth about lies prevail
When the man not knows what he does
And navigates through his own mindful solitude
I intrude in a broken world filled with people most pernicious
Some call them deceivers while some call them philosophers
Depends on how they see the truth of ambiguity
Two parallel bridges to cross a sea most demoniac
While only one bridge armed with the truthful support
But the world feels much too simple without rails to grasp
As there is nothing to hinder the peaceful descent
Smoothly into that paradise once existent
I'd fairly not speak about the truthful man
But rather the lying hero
For he has more knowledge with the concept of ambiguity
But whom does the stray bullet in the revolver take?
The truthful man or the lying hero?
If the truthful man chooses not the rails out of pride
And the lying hero slashes his wrists out of regret
At first I settle with those who favor the liar
But if I had two bullets
I would see that the pride would also suffice
As the ambiguous man shall die twice
For ambiguity is anything but simplicity
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC