"phonetics" poems
Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.
Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
typewriter rhythm
clacking away new beats
tempo exchanges
computer lab concerto
fair-weather phonetics
hunt and peck symphony
symbolic of the system
poking at inmates
pecking at the enforcers
attempting to gain an education --
floating above the ruckus
offering research aid
I sit at the desk seeking only to enlighten
service work for those
suffering servitude
serfdom
post-modern slavery
complete with subsidies
scamming the con-men --
white house looks best
through prison barred windows
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
/ the aesthete...
and the athlete,
i.e.
the "sophist",
and the "philosopher"?
ah... phonetics, rather linguistics:
former: as-feet...
but the latter?
ancient greek
in french:
a(h)'f'lé'té.
people should, really introduce
a chemistry-style subscript for surds,
most notably H,
hay'chch,
when dealing with such deviations
from classicaly philosophy
metaphysical concerns,
and modern, orthography:
this, the, now,
types of "philosophical" inquiries:
and i mean that
as "philosophical":
because i actualy mean...
the favours of pedantry akin to
being entertained by
the intricacies of Versailles;
you'd get more good-luck wishes
in the form of horse-shoes
hanging over your door in a small
village in the ***** of gascony.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
It's kinda funny, in this Language,
that the following two words should rhyme:
Rise and Demise
To me, it sort of implies a correlation:
philosophically rationalized
linguistic ties;
phonetic lies,
the phonetics lie.
Which lie? Will I clarify?
Certainly not!
For it is
double entendre;
maybe more, maybe less.
But nevertheless, the moral of the story is:
[this] Language is kinda funny.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
painting when being bilingual, the naked phonetics of the english alphabet, and the diacritics on the polish one, for example -sh- of the former and -sz- of the latter, but the painting is still entitled: trying to capture what was being said without lip-reading but by optics encoding the sounds, so that someone bilingual might decipher; and yes, dependent of aesthetics / orthography the -rz- versus the ż.
azog
szak gaum'dasz!
blog
kruto, goniś... gunwondersmargen'ś.
azog
mor'rzyrljisz?
blog
golumdo, sza zu lisz sza za duh.
azog
jam dysz! *** da kurz nak krza rzuk;
arz ga bejark gundabadul,
mar kam narm karszrz.
mulgaj! a'naj! ursdraj! tu pu nam - ah me c!
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
you'll never guess what i heard today
endless narratives
encapsulating pointless encounters
passing judgments
handing out ruthless commentary
life lessons
ridiculing those that are different
infringing on the delicate bounds of insanity
infinite meaningless utterances
thoughtful queries
timeless perceptions and interpretations
brilliant phonetics
postulating conspiracies
comical puns, quips, and jabs
underlying assumptions
fascinatingly deceptive and imaginative theories
i hear you
i hear everything you say
but all i needed
was for you to LISTEN
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 12:27 PM UTC
Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.
Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
Dough, a food, unleavened bread
Ray, a frequency of light
Me, the self, the id or ego
Far, a distance long in length
Sew, a thread joined by a needle
La, a french word that's feminine
Tea, a leaf steeped in hot water
And it brings us back to dough.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
twenty six shapes,
empty spaces too,
dots and tailed dots,
squiggles,
syntax, usage,
certain rules,
phonetics,
with this simple toolbox
we present the sum of human expression
up to and including this one
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Here's what I have learnt about the phonetics of loss.
They sound something like this:
(which is to say, silence)
it's a note I've never heard anyone sing
and it's note that someday I will find,
come morning, sleep has left behind.
This sound, like those in an old lullaby
until found, I can know only as goodbye,
as milkteeth underneath a cotton pillow,
as the sounds that I hear now:
(the black bedtime echo).
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
let me tell you the story
of the girl who laced cigarettes
with the taste of coffee
the girl who stained tissue napkins with sappy phonetics
and the guy who knew nothing of the sort
she carved heartbreak on the surface of her wrists
and broke silence with unessential questions
she wore her wounds in a tight braid
and carried her worries on the pages of a paper-back book
she described her mind as retired
from all the wars she has won and lost
she exclaims sighs of relief
and stands by the neutrality of her hopeless idealism
on the other side of the universe, however
there exists
the personification of oblivion
he betrays his race with an unrecognized voice
and words misunderstood by his own kind
he returns to his world for temporary release
of what
he is still unsure of
and yet
he is certain of the presence of sadness
he masks his isolation with a facade of self-accompaniment
and satisfies his inner desires with empty seats
he covers up his chapters with bottles of prohibition
and mystifies the tables with ashes of past regret
he sings about tomorrow as if it holds a promise
a promise of better days to come
he has gone from mountain to mountain
in hopes of a brighter view of the sun
but amidst all his travels,
he is yet to be blinded by the brightest of flames
and so,
he appears to be void
of reason
of worth
of a sense of purpose
of plans of the future
and maybe this is where the story ends.
with both their hands shaking from an overdose
with momentary glances of unread excerpts of themselves
with the unspoken truths
and with held-back melodies of lyrics still unknown
with curses of similarities
and vows of their difference
with her,
believing she already knows too much
and with him,
thinking she is yet to know more
or maybe I was wrong.
because maybe,
just maybe,
this is where the story begins.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
that tightness in your chest you could never explain.
what good are leftover words for anything other than a small semblance of hope hiding behind pleasant phonetics?
natural shades still stain the replacement pillow cases as you small-talk your way out the door in between every fleeted step.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 4:24 AM UTC
I am slowly learning to use my words—
allowing the ink to besmirch these immaculate fingers
as I weave out my sloppy cursives around feint rules
like hydrangeas climbing lattices in the early summer;
spelling out vulnerability with every bit of hope
left glistening in these swollen, tear-stained eyes,
and unfaltering love with all five letters of his name.
I am slowly learning to use my voice—
heaving out the dust that’s settled over things left unsaid,
and rolling out my tongue to intimately slip off naked truths
my throat has been choking on in the silence of fear;
drawing constellations between the kisses of my lips
to faithfully concede to the phonetics of needs and wants,
and articulate every syllable with the intonation of desire.
So read between the lines, and listen closely—
pick apart my words and unravel the candor in my stutter,
unzip and unbutton every unsent letter I’ve ever written,
and watch me strip down on these pages in poetry-laced lingerie.
I am no longer that bashful submissive sprawled across the bed,
softly moaning for the pleasure of attention and the pain of neglect
under the crippling fear of loss firmly taped over my mouth.
I am slowly learning to ask for what I still and have always wanted—
I'm sorry it took me so long.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 7:26 AM UTC
I can't form a single word
Write a single note
Lyrics in my head
In my mind they float
Seeing all these letters
No phonetics in my mind
Feelings swimming
No meaning do I find
Dark in this cold room
I'm told seek until it's found
Here the emptiness' loom
When no one is around
In the dark I see
No further than my hand
All that I can be
Swallowed in the sand
Pulling hard is the tide
Swallowing me down
Pushing me as I cry
To the locker I am bound
The depths I see
I'm close to bottom
Dragging me
I'm nearly forgotten
End is near,
To be renewed
To start afresh
Views slightly skewed
To live and give life
Cycle of our being
At its worst
When we're simply beginning
Adjusting to the stress I hold
Suffocating me tightly
Within this mold
Broken free
To start anew
These jagged views we've slightly skewed...
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 4:34 PM UTC
I see your words,
They explode from your pen,
And attack whomever looks upon them,
As if a rabid chimera.
I see your words,
And I feel the pain,
endured upon writing them.
Writing with a writhing wrist.
I see your words,
And I am frightened by them.
I see them morph into monsters,
Right in front of my eyes.
I see your words,
And they haunt me.
They follow me everywhere,
Reminding me I can't make you happy.
I see your words,
Unmasked and raw.
But I must master the art,
Of maskery and disguise myself.
I see your words,
Float from your mouth,
Jagged and angry,
Hoping you do not jump from the cliff you created.
I see your words,
And they inspire me.
So now it is I,
Writing with a writhing wrist.
Jotting my passion down with fury,
Creating a fire formed from phonetics.
Angry that I am fighting for an impossibility.
Angry for not being enough.
I see your words,
And they sting like the truth.
They singe my spirits,
And put shackles upon my shins.
I see your words,
And I am captivated-
No, better yet, enslaved,
Never to be freed from them.
I see your words,
And they change my world.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 5:02 PM UTC
/ *are there any misnomers in the representation
of language, only, and only within the confines
of phonetics? sure... spelling is not exactly
arithmetics... but is it?*
/ trance
as the "misnomer"
of the prefix trans...
oh my god,
current english -
and the golden
age of chaos -
and that nashville twang
in an american blonde's
voice: like a banjo...
gott ist tot:
kommen die titan, la(s)chend.
/
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
is my mood ring broken?
or did i forget what it felt like
to know you?
i often wonder if i've numbed to it all,
but maybe my heater just stopped working.
all the same, i've forgotten the sound
of my name on your lips,
the air passing through, like a parting kiss.
so why let it be spoken at all?
is my mood ring broken?
all i'm feeling is small.
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 3:21 AM UTC
much of j. r. r. tolkien is unoriginal, the dwarfs are basically jews, thrór is simply king solomon, amassing great riches, the dwarfs are exiled; it's a clever plagiarism of historical events.
for the ones that say: too see patterns in holes
in phonetic units, too see
lions in zoological enclosures of curiosity,
to craft orbits of curling lips
and numbed tongues within trebling
kabbalah is the forgotten anatomy
of only the mouth, the gate into the mind,
find the mouth a curiosity, you will enter
solomon's mines of wealth, where each
thought an idea, the constantly pressurising
scalpel furthering you on: it was islam
with the gift of the holy graffiti of scribbles
on walls: their verboclasm that pursued us
to abuse a fondness of erecting statues no more...
to copyright and trademark an arrangement
akin to coca-cola with hope of lettering
a statue into motions of nonchalant waves
and lashes...
to abandon representation of chiselled cheeks
and foreheads to carve into marble
and other stones the phonetics while
leaving the many ignorant and dyslexic
is too a blasphemy on the original demand
of the commandments: this engraving of
the tongue's recognition of sounds is equally
abhorrent.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
i just want to stay up to midnight and watch the footie...
see, already, it's there, he wannabe blind man
turning phonetics upside down
using optical symbols to sing with his eyes closed
and acting out a sloth piece of a stage's curtain call for encore,
footie can be american slang for football: or ensure a bag of
flour explodes while i get scalped;
otherwise footie means football:
you know it's round enough to be kicked
rather than thrown for a touchdown...
never got the hang of it... n.f.l. means
as much to me as does excess of hair
on a cranium crop of expected hair with no beard,
and vice versa, loss of hair and a donned
beard for the plucked sucker of the 2nd ball drop...
baldy over here met elvis and in levis took
to a cattle stampede with aria: la la la lee lo lo he he
(mike jackson slam dunks a quack for the moon pond,
like it was n.b.a. anyway: walking on ice
the musical... now the encore... signature the
sound of applause);
so this married man is rebelling...watches football
till midnight, rebel...
watches the footie...
a. foot, i.e.
b. foot, e
c. foot eeh
d. footy
e. foo' tea
f. foo' tee
now you guess the accent...
cumbrian? glaswegian?
north london or brick lane? which?
a, b, c d or e or f?^
see what happens being judgemental and sober?
you get drunks doing picassos! and that's not good
not good one bit for the worth of investment in plagiarisms.
the stressor marks / diacritical marks missing in english
obviously gave us scot spelling and a welsh 1 + 1 of
a middle finger longbow stylistic for the v long
before churchill... i wanted gaelic i got trainspotting spelling...
about as relevant as catcher in the rye relevant by now...
so... don't teach accent rubrics... and you'll get a heartfelt
superiority in the former colonies, while the pigeons coo:
or simply curl the famished tongues
that were silenced for man to speak in spasms
of an electrician checking the sockets for an electric depth
of the pigeons' coo into an aqualine echo of a sneeze,
if not snorkel or a gesundheit.
^*i hate how syllable splitting into compounds
show diacritical marks all too relevant, missing.*
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
Temporal distortions.
3,2,1 1,2,3.
Subconscious contortions.
“Twinkle twinkle little hat,
Tell me on whose head you sat.”
They ask me my name and I want to answer, but they seem to be standing on their heads, and feet do not have ears from what I can tell.
There is a man in the corner aging backwards and an infant in an armchair reading what appears to be Dickens, while puffing on a pipe. He gives me a cold look and also asks me my name.
I start to reply, but he has already buried his head back in the book.
5, 4, 3, 2… 9.
Wait, that isn’t right.
9, 8, 7, 6, 5… 13.
****** that isn’t either.
Cardiovascular erosion.
“Come on then, take a deeeeeep breath. That’s it. Find your inner chi. You are on a splendid beach.”
Synaptic corrosion.
“Now the second law dictates that entropy will always increase, and entropy, as we all know, is the amount of Thetans we possess in our body.
15, 12, 104, 18…
**** what comes after 18?
The people standing on their heads have started singing Christmas songs.
But it is in the middle of Bruly. Christmas is not in Bruly. It is in Leptember. What silly creatures.
Distant phonetics.
If a tree falls in a forest, will it disturb Rip Van Winkle?
Ocular genetics.
Now I quoth Jesus when I say, “If one eyes does cause you to sin, pluck out the other one if it doesn’t want to join in on the fun.
I can no longer speak. My teeth have turned into book pages, dampened by saliva. The man again backwards is now merely a floating fetus in a womb with the infant tsking in disapproval while puffing on his pipe.
The people standing on their heads are singing the wrong words to Oh Holy Night and once more a voice asks me my name.
Suicidal contemplation vs societal insubornation! Who will conquer who..?
Through teethless gums I murmur,
“I have no name, I have no face. I am chaotic understanding made of madness in my veins.
Close your eyes and count to ten.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Shut off the sky if I ask you to.
Grab my world so brassy boring between
battles and courage.
I provide the cold hands and you provide the ghosts
We know constellations listen from melting harnessed skies
then share stories of their bigness.
June can wait a bit.
My verse spinning sad where you used your knees on the good nights.
Born alive, born with the thinnest layer of skin
Finding comedy in the ripped pages
Cutting phonetics apart
Witling words, truncate.
Shakespeare was an afterthought.
I’m bowing in the middle of the scene, I’m shaking off applause.
Punctuation becomes a commandment
I reverse and misuse.
Commas mean breath and in their place- used in succession,
mean run through corn fields like you’re being chased, like your fingers are full of cramps.
Injecting poetry like insulin.
Hoping it will seep into your bones
and strengthen the foundation
like the milk with you ice cubes you
had to drink with dinner.
Envy the women on nick at night who want new dresses and new babies and don’t scrape their insides out in front of readers and audiences because they’re bored and maybe not sure if they’re real.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
you are
syntax and semantics
phonetics and phonology
you are
written and oral
formal and informal
you are
past and future
now and forever
you are
identity and heritage
togetherness and uniqueness
you are
simple and complex
imperfect and perfect
you are
language.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 4:05 PM UTC
hello,
right now i have renovated this hello poem,
a hefty amount of times,
with the hearty intent,
to get this hellish hunk of hello poem of my heavy tongue.
hello,
hardly have i crafted a poem,
i have instead handwoven a handy distraction from the whole point.
hello,
all of the half-decent "h" sounding alliteration words have horribly,
been wasted on his half-assed poem.
having ruined the word 'hello' and any horrid word with similarities,
in the phonetics or what have you,
i end this poem here.
and i end this hallowed hell of this poem in high regards to you.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 3:54 AM UTC
if the theatre breathes like a rancid lung
it must exhale into the rafters;
ledger-scent and sour of iron...y,
and hours congealed into one bleak bruise.
then it must be that only (i) inherit a vessel
as one inherits a house wrecked by fire:
walls still too warm with other lives,
wallpaper peeled into letters that spell me.
never (my) name.
heart-beat / heart • skip
(these syllables only ever tally debts.)
(my) palms are tax-collectors with gloves far too soft to grasp mercy.
(my) ribs are two little vaults where accusations slumber.
and there are ceaseless receipts folded inside the sole of (my) shoe.
evenings most beautiful
with rain pouring down their face,
have stopped pooling and now,
they sediment, layer upon layer...
in the strata of one’s rues,
as ossified bulwarks for crimes (i) never learned.
a braided tongue of smoke
knots through (my) chest,
insisting on words (i) never even conceived,
sighing a confession to a jury of
absent eyes.
they led me to the scaffold
palisaded oak, blade polished to a sunless gleam,
and the (crowd), silent as those ledge
pages,
watched
as i was sentenced for the mere act of knowing.
and even as the head fell,
i felt the phonetics of my existence
spill like tarnished coins across the wet cobblestones,
and the (spectators), formless and meticulous,
gathered them as though i were (theirs).
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 9:46 AM UTC